Conquer the Night (18 page)

Aye, fight him!

But she never did so. What was this insanity? There had never been this question before; she had simply hated Kinsey, the sight of him, scent of him, nearness of him. She had hated him, as she should hate this man who touched her so.

Protest, move away, don't allow yourself to feel this … this …

Hunger, aye it was a hunger!

No …

Deny it or not, she was the one who was startled when he suddenly broke away. His finger moved over her cheek. It was damp with her tears.

Aye, tears. Touching her cheeks.

And he read them wrong!

“So you did love him!” he said, and his voice sounded like death.

She did love him? Kinsey Darrow? The very thought made her shudder!

He rose, pushing away from her as if he had just discovered her to be poison.

At a table near the hearth, he found washwater and poured it from the ewer to the bowl. She noted the length of his body again.

He was leaving her.

Was she such poison that a man holding all the power would simply walk away?

He had dismissed her entirely, so it seemed. In minutes he was dressed and gone.

Arryn was angry, and he didn't know why.
She
had the ability to goad his temper, and it was ridiculous, and bizarre, and he shouldn't put up with it, not for a minute.

He could leave her; he could walk away from her. She meant nothing to him. She was a little fool ready to throw herself from a tower rather than risk any chance of not finding Kinsey Darrow, warning him of danger. He should tie her to a stake in the courtyard, build up a pile of rushes, and set fire to it all.

She was the least important factor in all that he was doing.

Downstairs in the main hall, he found that it was late again, that his men had eaten, that Ragnor had ordered them to various tasks. A mason was on the tower, repairing the wall.

“You know, Arryn, it looks as if the lady might actually have fallen.”

“Then why did she try to swim away when she saw me?”

“She's our prisoner. What would you do as a prisoner?”

The truth of Ragnor's words didn't improve his mood toward Darrow's lady. “It doesn't matter. Have you spoken with John?”

“Aye.” Ragnor was quiet for a moment, surveying the main hall, but they were alone. “Wallace believes that we can strike at the English and win.”

“I think the time has come.”

“So we'll meet and find out his intentions in a fortnight.”

“Aye. But if …”

“Aye?”

Arryn smiled, showing his growing sense of excitement. “If Andrew de Moray is really bringing down a force from the north, if we can really gather together such strengths …”

“The barons will still be against us. Aye, our own.”

Arryn shook his head. “They will fear for their own holdings, but they won't be against us. But what we have needed is a real coordinated effort. Oh, aye, we've taken this castle, Wallace has taken castles … Andrew has made even greater seizures in the north. But when John Balliol abdicated … those who survived the English retaliation were left to be outlaws. We had no common banner. If we can create a real force, a great force, it will not matter that the Bruces stay away, fearful that Edward will never see their line as kings! What we have is the people—when Wallace flees, he is hidden. Men risk their lives for him. Women, too, see death, and are willing to die for him. He has nothing to gain, nothing to lose—except his life. He compels belief; his power is in his love for his country, in his willingness to die for Scotland. That is greater than any title, Ragnor!”

“Aye, and it will be good.” He was quiet for a moment.

“Ragnor, it's good to have men fighting for their beliefs, for their country. But it's also good to have men who are disciplined, who know how to do battle, to form ranks against an enemy. We need to work, to train.”

“Your men are warriors, fierce, brave.”

“We need more against the English. We need the greatest skills we can accrue.”

“Then we will train.”

“Aye,” he said, and was thoughtful for a moment. “We will train, and take care with that training. John knows now to be careful about what is said, and we must all be careful here, always, about what is said regarding any plans.”

“Why is that?”

“We are within miles of the forest of Selkirk.”

“Aye?”

“Traitors would have but a few steps to go to discover Wallace before he is ready.”

Ragnor nodded. “Aye, then we'll be silent.” He smiled. “Fierce and silent.”

Arryn grinned. “Summon our new men—those we've acquired from conquest here, along with those of our own not on duty. We shall see how they do with schiltrons on the far north field.”

“Aye, Arryn. The priest has suggested sunset to bury the dead. The bodies have been wrapped in shrouds and kept below, but … even so, they grow ripe.”

“Fine, they'll all be buried with Christian dignity. The Englishmen who would seize Scotland may lie now in Scottish soil.”

“They would seize Scotland.”

“And now they will have it.”

“For eternity,” Ragnor said. He shrugged. “Like as not, it's the way we all will end.”

“Like as not, the way we're going, it will be a kind enough death to die in battle,” Arryn said. They both knew the punishment for men Edward of England considered traitors.

When Ingrid came that day, she was accompanied by Gaston and several of the household servants; they had brought trunks of clothing from Kyra's own room.

Ingrid seemed tired, asking her anxiously about her welfare, but then falling silent and saying no more about their heathen conquerors. Kyra was offered a steaming bath once again, and Ingrid washed her hair with rose water, and spent an hour brushing it out before a fresh fire. She dressed in a soft gold undergown and pale yellow tunic. The sleeves were furred, as was the hemline, and when she was dressed, she was surprised to realize that she felt very much the lady of Seacairn once again.

It had been like this when her father was alive. When she believed that her father would have some say in her marriage. He had refused to allow her to be wed as a child; such marriages were a common enough occurrence. She had known that Edward had long considered Kinsey Darrow a good match for her; Darrow had his own ruthless determination, since she was hereditary heiress to great tracts of land. But Edward had not committed her to the betrothal until her father's death. She wondered what would have happened had her father lived. And then she knew that he would have fought, and he would have died. He had been an Englishman, and his liege duty had been to Edward of England.

When Ingrid and Gaston had both been gone some time, she paced the tower room, feeling like a bird in a cage, and growing angry with herself because she could not help but wonder about her captor. Every so often she grew flushed and uneasy, thinking that she would not have fought him with any sense of noble pride if he had remained that morning. But he had left her, in an obvious state of …

Wanting.

Not able to bear her own thoughts any longer, she strode firmly to the door and threw it open. As she suspected, she was not alone.

Jay stood guard, staring at the door to the parapets.

“My lady. I was about to come for you.”

“Oh?”

“We bury the dead this evening; the ceremony begins shortly.” He stretched out an arm to her. She hesitated, then accepted it. He led her down the stairs.

Gaston and a number of the servants were busy in the great hall, setting the table for the evening meal. The hounds gathered by the hearth, awaiting the bones and crumbs that would come their way.

“Come, my lady.”

She followed him out to the courtyard. Jay's mount awaited him, and she found that someone had known which horse was hers, for her mare was saddled and awaiting her just past the great doors of the inner court, held there by one of Arryn's lads.

She mounted her horse, watching Jay.

“You're not afraid I'm going to gallop for the trees?”

“If you do, it will not be my affair,” he said. And, looking toward the portcullis gates, she saw that Arryn blocked the way to the fields beyond the castle.

“Lady Kyra!” he called politely. “Father Corrigan buries all men alike. Come, join us. The dead will surely cherish your prayers.”

How could he sound so polite and so mocking, all at the same time?

She rode ahead of Jay, irritated and aware that she would not try to run at the moment. The people were gathering: farmers, smiths, fishwives, attending Christian burial for those who had fallen in her defense!

And, of course, those who had fallen to bring her down.

She reached Arryn's position and did not slow her gait. He watched her go by and followed. They rode to the great copse at the beginning of the woods; she knew where, for it had been a hallowed ground for many years, from long before the days when the conqueror had come to England, and their world had just subtly begun to change.

The people were gathered; Father Corrigan was in his robes. The corpses were neither English nor Scottish in their shrouds.

She dismounted from her mare without assistance, and strode to the crowd. She was glad when cries and smiles greeted her.

Because, of course, the people here were the people she knew. The villagers. She had come and gone as befitted the daughter of a nobleman, but she had shared their lives as well. Her father was a man aware of his position, and the responsibility of it rather than the honor. He and she had joined in the May Day dances, baptisms, weddings, and funerals before. On saints' days, she had humbly washed the feet of their poorest tenants, brought food to the aging and aid to the injured and sick.

These were the people she had known all her life. It was good to be among them.

“My lady!”

“Lady Kyra has come!”

She knew the faces of the people: tenants, servants, artisans. She smiled, greeting them in turn; many of them touched her clothing as she passed among them. They gained strength from her, she knew, and comfort and courage. She touched them in turn, a child's face, an old man's shoulder, a mother's hand. Alistair, a farmer, now limped and leaned on a cane. She touched his shoulder.

“The outlaws did this to you?” she whispered.

“Nay, they did not. And I'm well, my lady.” He flushed. “I fell in my haste to clear a path to the river yesterday. I—I was running from them.”

She nodded. “It will heal, I think. And you should have run. You had no weapons, no armor; you could not fight.”

“Perhaps not, Lady Kyra. And I pray we all heal.”

She smiled. “Indeed.” She hesitated, ready to tell him that these conquerors would not rule long; Edward would come down upon them with a mighty blow.

She said nothing.

She felt cold. Cold and afraid.

She saw Father Corrigan come to stand in the copse with the corpses. He spoke to the crowd, saying that God welcomed all men who believed, and then began funeral rites in Latin, his voice rich, blanketing the crowd. He prayed for the whole of their community, for the people of Scotland, for men who had died fighting. He said nothing overtly against Edward; his prayers were for the dead. When he had finished with the basic rites, he went from corpse to corpse, sprinkling them with holy water, making the sign of the cross over each body.

Then the men lowered the corpses, one by one, into the graves that had been dug for them.

The sound of the bodies thumping into the soft, newly turned earth seemed very sad and final; the smell of that same earth was rich and redolent. Then there were tears, as soft this morning as the sound of the earth as women cried for the men they had lost.

Darkness seemed to fall just as the last man was buried.
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust
. Kyra found herself watching Sir Arryn. His features were grim. He was surely thinking that this was a kinder scene than that which he had encountered when returning to Hawk's Cairn after Kinsey Darrow and his men had come through.

Dust to dust
. These corpses would decay.

Ashes to ashes
…

He'd found nothing but charred bodies to bury upon his return.

Father Corrigan intoned a few more prayers, then told the living to go in peace.

It seemed a strikingly sad epilogue to funeral rites taking place in the aftermath of battle.

She was startled when she realized that Arryn was staring at her. When he started through the people to reach her, she instantly backed away, then turned and fled for her horse. She managed to leap up just as he reached her, catching her mare's reins.

“You're joining us for dinner, my lady?” he inquired politely.

She hesitated, wanting desperately to strike him and get away from him.

“You're giving me a choice?” she inquired.

“What I meant, my lady, is that you're not thinking of leaving, are you? It's been a long day. I'm not in the mood for a chase.”

“If you're giving me a choice—”

“Aye, that I am. There is dinner, or there is none,” he said politely. “But then, it's interesting. Do all your people love you so? The men-at-arms who have joined us, who eat in the hall as well? The servants who bring the meal? You've been so warmly greeted here. You're missed. I would think that you'd want to be among your people.”

She smiled, leaning low. “And you'd have more influence and power here and with these people were I to pretend to tolerate you?”

“But you do tolerate me, my lady,” he said smoothly, a cobalt shield seeming to cover his eyes so that they were like glass. “You've actually done far more than tolerate me.”

She lowered her eyes, trying to draw her horse free from his hold.

Of course, she could not.

“Look at me, my lady.”

She did so, her jaw clenched, her lips pursed.