Conquer the Night (27 page)

That was in 1291, and Edward had summoned a great many of the nobles to a meeting at the border—he had summoned his own northern nobles there as well. The Scots had arrived expecting a council, not war. They had not ridden in with weapons or troops. When they arrived, King Edward demanded that they recognize him as lord paramount of Scotland. The Scottish power and aristocracy asked for a delay; they were given twenty-four hours, and then three weeks. But even with three weeks' time, there was no way they could successfully deny Edward of England; they were well aware of the power he would soon have at the border, and that three weeks' time did not allow them to gather any type of opposing army, especially for the magnates who had come from the north of the country.

The infamous oath of allegiance the English king demanded was to begin to be administered on July 13, 1291, and to proceed for the following two weeks. Any man who came to the appointed place to sign the oath, and then refused to do so, was to be arrested—and not released until he complied. Any man who sent a good excuse as to why he couldn't come at the appointed time and sign was to be given to the next parliament. Any man who ignored the summons to sign the oath of allegiance was to be dealt with severely.

And so the English given power in Scotland were all but granted the right to rape, murder, and pillage at will—all in the name of King Edward.

John Balliol had been crowned king at Scone, in 1292. In 1295 he rebelled against Edward's demand for troops for France—and in 1296 he was forced to prostrate himself before Edward.

In the matter of a few years, Edward had stamped down on the country with a mighty heel, and then he had begun to grind. Stunned at first, led by factions, beaten viciously at Berwick and Dunbar, the Scots had floundered in their rebellion, anger and fear vying in the souls of a people and a nation.

There was only so long any people could be so subjugated.

And here they were, summer of 1297. They had become outlaws, rebels, striking daring raids against the giant English war machine.

“We'll be ready, and we'll fight, I'll swear it,” Andrew de Moray said with quiet passion. “We watch the English now, as they watch us; we are still moving about the countryside, foraging, stealing English supplies. But the time has come when the armies have begun their real movements. They intend to encounter us soon. We have decided our positions. Word will come to you when and where to join us; if yours are trained as you say, they'll meet the first wave of English cavalry, fighting on the left flank. Aye?”

Arryn watched de Moray draw patterns in the dirt. De Moray's eyes met his. “We'll not back down. Cressingham will naturally demand that we do so, thinking that we will sue for peace. He will want to break us, take hostages, humiliate us. But we will not seek peace.”

“Nay, there will be no peace!” Wallace said. He rose. Again Arryn, not a small man himself, was impressed by the sheer size of the man. The sword Wallace carried was almost as large as the man, a weapon to deal out the bitter justice Wallace never hesitated to deliver.

Arryn rose as well, along with his cousin and the others. He gripped Wallace's hand, meeting the man's eyes, and he knew that his pact was made. They needed no oaths, no written agreements of allegiance and loyalty. De Moray gripped his hand tightly as well. They were all aware of the consequences, should they fail.

As he prepared to ride for Seacairn, John was beside him.

“How goes life at the castle?”

“Well. It's a fine fortress, with good people.”

“Aye, maybe. But keep in mind, they are not all to be trusted,” John said.

Arryn looked at his cousin sharply. “Aye?”

John patted Pict's nose. He looked back to Arryn. “The battle comes soon enough, but while Wallace still awaits the whole formation of his army, it wouldn't be good if the English were to stumble upon them.”

Arryn leaned forward. “So who knows exactly where Wallace and de Moray wait? The men with me—”

“I trust implicitly,” John said.

“Then …”

“Be careful with her, Arryn.”

“Your pardon, cousin?”

“Tell her nothing, ever.”

“Her?” he queried tensely, though they both knew of whom they spoke.

“Lady Kyra.”

“I share little enough of my thoughts and plans with my own men, John. I'm not likely to have council with a woman sworn to the English king.”

“Arryn, you're angry with me! Don't be. I just warn you to take care. She is beautiful and charming … no, she is much more. She is clever. She understands much of what is happening. She is extraordinary, and therefore frightening. There are men and armies ranging all about now. If she were to know anything at all about you … about Wallace, this battle … and if she were to escape … well, she could be very dangerous, that is all. Don't forget her loyalties while you fall beneath her spell.”

“I am under no one's spell,” he said irritably. He leaned low, telling his cousin heatedly, “I never forget Hawk's Cairn.”

“It will be your battle cry,” John agreed. “As I said, don't be angry. I just warn you because I do admire the lady. But I would not hesitate to cut her down for a betrayal. I have not known her, as you have.”

“I'm not a cold-blooded murderer, John,” Arryn said. “But I've not forgotten. Trust in that: I've not forgotten!”

John nodded and stepped back.

Arryn turned back to Jay and Ragnor, who patiently waited a few lengths back.

They rode for Seacairn, leaving the forest of Selkirk behind them.

From the parapets, Kyra looked down longingly at the river below. Aye, the water was cold, frigid. But it was summer, and the cold could be borne. If only she could jump … how much more difficult could a jump be than a fall?

Of course, God knew what she would do then, where she would go. If she was going to escape, she must do so carefully, with grave thought given to her every move. She didn't know where Arryn had gone now. She had awakened late yesterday morning to find him gone, which she hadn't known at first because he had never sought her company during the day. She had found out only when she had ventured from her door to find Patrick on guard, and inviting her to join the men in the main hall for dinner. Somewhat warily she had done so, afraid that perhaps she had been left to the devices of Arryn's rabble, but too curious about what was to come to refuse any chance for information.

She'd learned nothing, except that John Graham, Jay, and Ragnor were with Arryn, that they were expected to be gone no more than forty-eight hours. But though he'd been gone the length of the day already, she still had ample time to think, to plot, to plan, to make good an escape. His men were not rabble at all, she discovered that night, but earnest young fellows, dedicated to their cause, and kind to her, despite the many degradations they had suffered. Patrick, who had apparently been assigned her guardian in Arryn's absence, sat by her side and looked after her needs. A juggler had found his way to the castle, and he entertained. A senachie, or storyteller, traveling with the men, played a pipe, and gave the sad lament of King Alexander III, so fine and robust a man, and so tragic a figure, losing his beloved wife, his sons, aye even his daughter, who died in childbed, then dramatically plunging to his death in the pursuit of his young bride—and an heir for Scotland.

At her side, Patrick sniffed.

She looked at him, arching a brow.

He had dimples, rich brown hair, and bright hazel eyes. He smiled wryly at her. “Ah, there's no disrespect intended, for Alexander were a fine enough king, and a sorry enough man for all his losses, but he was a fool the night he died!”

She must have gazed at him with some astonishment at his words, for he quickly defended himself. “Ask Arryn, if you would! The night was wretched, and the king were warned! Arryn rode with him, and was among the men who found his battered body below the cliffs. And he said they knew, the lot of them knew, somehow, even then, that we were in for it! The sky burned red, they say, foretelling of the blood that would run.”

She shivered slightly. “Then Arryn knew Alexander well?” she inquired.

“Aye, he was given over to his household as a lad; he was knighted by the king himself. Alexander admired Arryn, taught him, and gave him many opportunities. Once, rather then send armies to war, he and an old border lord agreed that they'd have their champions joust to settle a dispute. Arryn fought for Alexander, no more than a lad at the time. He won the day, and the king rewarded him. Aye, some things were civil then! An agreement had been made, and it was honored. Alexander suffered much, you see. His wife—Edward's sister—dying, then his young son, and his older son, and even his daughter, giving birth to the Maiden of Norway. I think that he saw the sons he might have raised in Arryn. The king gave him that great dark horse of his as well. One day Arryn brought down a boar that might have gored the king. He saw the danger and went hopping right down on the creature and wrested it to the earth with nothing but a wee knife. He rode with the king, admired the king, and yet was furious with him for giving up his life and setting us all on this trail! It was Alexander who told Arryn that no one man was Scotland, that the people were a nation, that there was a pulse and uniqueness all our own.” He grimaced. “So you see, lady, we cannot so easily give homage to another! Especially so heinous a monster as your Edward!”

She hesitated, lowering her head. Then she looked up at him. “Patrick, have you heard the tales about your William Wallace?”

His eyes narrowed. She trod on dangerous ground. And still, there was a point to be made. “Wallace has conquered castles and towns—and put all good men to the sword, whether bishops and priests begged for their lives or not!”

“You must know what was done—”

“Aye, that I do, Patrick. But you must see then, to English children along the border, your hero is seen as sent from Satan himself. And as to Edward … you see, the queen of England was my godmother. And I spent several years as a child living in London. The king I saw was a great man, resplendent in his armor, and often merciful to men brought before him who begged for his forgiveness!”

“ 'Tis said that many a dying maid and child begged for their lives at Berwick, my lady,” Patrick said.

She lowered her head. Aye, it was true. The massacre at Berwick had been so brutal and terrible that it would forever stain the reputation of Edward I of England. And still, the king was all she had, she realized. The king of England was the only man who could salvage her situation now—and dear God, save her life.

Arryn did not understand. He would give her her freedom—when he left! She couldn't stay and remain with him.

And she couldn't stay …

To be imprisoned once again. By Kinsey.

Escape …

She would do so. She had to.

But that night, she almost fell asleep at the table.

With the room spinning, she leaned heavily on Patrick to reach the tower. Ingrid was there to help her to disrobe. And she slept alone, slept like the dead.

Patrick, she surmised, had drugged her. Far easier to drug a dangerous enemy than spend a night fearing her treachery!

So it was already afternoon as she stared at the river. Time to plan her escape was slipping away. She realized, ever more fully, that her only chance to survive the brutal thrusts and parries of the Scottish war was to somehow escape all the way to London—and throw herself on the mercy of the English king. That he was away in France made her future frightening and difficult; she could never go to Kinsey. Most likely he would find a way to wed her, and then to rid himself of her. Nor could she even try to find Percy, Warren, or Cressingham, Edward's commanders in the field, searching out the rebels here in Scotland. They would care for her, of course; they would be obliged to honor the daughter of Lord Boniface, godchild of the late queen of England, and betrothed of Kinsey Darrow. They would be delighted to help rescue her—to turn her right over to Kinsey Darrow.

No, she had to get away. Far, far away. To London …

Or in the opposite direction. Far, far away from it all.

“My lady, just what are you doing?”

Father Corrigan had come to the parapets. Tall, rugged, and good-looking, he hardly seemed a proper soldier for the church.

“Nothing!” she said quickly.

“Suicide is a sin.”

“Oh, my God, Father, not that again. I never tried to kill myself.”

“Don't do it.”

“Don't do what?”

“Dive into the river and attempt an escape.”

She hesitated, staring at him. She had always suspected that his sympathies lay with the rebels.

“And why not, Father, what will happen to me? If I fail, he will come after me.”

“If you fail in your dive, you die.”

“Well, that would solve the dilemma.”

“Kyra—”

“And if he comes after me—”

“What if he does not?”

She froze, frowning. “If he does not, then I am free.”

“And Lord Darrow might well find you.”

Startled, she stared at him. It was chilling to realize that the priest seemed to think her in greater danger from her intended husband than from the outlaw who had seized her. Pride made her stand tall and reply to him curtly.

“Then, sir, I will be safe from all rebels, and Darrow would find them, and hang them all for what they have done here.”

She turned, walking swiftly away from him, dismay filling her. She had no one. Her priest was an outlaw. Her captain of the guard had turned to the enemy. Her maid was a scared creature who had no understanding whatsoever of the thoughts of men.

And the outlaw who had taken the castle …

Wanted her only so long as he remained. There would be other battles, other walls to breach—other women.

“Is that what you want, Lady Kyra? Would that please you, would you see it as justice?”