Conquer the Night (8 page)

He turned away from the view, looking up to see that one of his men duly guarded the open tower above the master's chambers. He saluted his man, walked the circumference of the parapets, then hurried down the outer stairs to the courtyard below.

He summoned his squire, Brendan, a second cousin, and one of the lads he had found half-dead outside the manor walls at Hawk's Cairn. Brendan had been struck with a battle-ax while defending the door to his lady's house. Amazingly, he had survived the blow. The lad was sixteen, the age Arryn had been himself at the king's death. He had shown amazing courage, readily risking his own life for others'.

“Fetch Pict for me, Brendan.”

“Aye.”

Pict, aye, he still had Pict, the great destrier King Alexander III had given him on the day he was knighted, fighting as the king's champion in a border skirmish that had been determined by his victory. His father had still been living then; that was before men were found mysteriously dead along the wayside for refusing to sign an oath of allegiance to Edward of England.

Brendan returned with his horse. “Shall I ride with you, Arryn?”

Arryn hesitated. This cousin of his was very much like him: a tall, strapping lad with very dark hair and serious deep blue eyes. He had spent hours training with weapons of war at Hawk's Cairn, and listening to the words of the rebels when they met. Most of his family had perished beneath Edward's pounding fist in one way or another, and he was destined to wage war against the English as well.

“It's always well to have a man at your back,” Brendan told him.

Arryn grinned. “That's true, and you're a good fellow for a man to have at his back. But right now, Brendan, I think I'll ride alone.”

“Aye, Arryn.”

So he rode alone, circling first the inner walls of the tower at Seacairn, then calling to his men on the portcullis to raise the inner gate, and seeing that the outer defenses were as secure as the inner defenses. Seacairn was an admirable fortress, begun back in the days of the Norman conqueror, enhanced during the realm of David I to the exceptional fortification it was now, with two walls to be breached to secure the innermost tower.

Dawn was breaking by the time he had ridden the whole of both walls and spoken with the people who remained awake to tend to the wounded, and to his own men, who had taken over the key lookout points on the walls.

Returning at last to the inner courtyard, he chose to brush Pict down himself and stable him with a fine supply of English grain.

Then he returned to the main hall, where Ragnor waited for him, standing now by the hearth, ready to give him a report. Another friend since childhood, Ragnor was a tall blond man with a red beard and light eyes, coloring that betrayed his Viking ancestry, something to be found frequently among the Scots, as in his own ancestors—just as Norman and English blood was common among them as well. The Scotland they now so passionately loved as one country had formed from native tribes that had come long before Christianity, just as it had also formed in more recent years with the addition of more would-be conquerors, invaders—and neighbors.

“You've been riding the fortress?” Ragnor asked.

“Aye, we're secure.”

“I've seen to the men, and the servants here, the injured, the priest. We've seven wounded, three dead,” Ragnor said. “The wounded are in the priest's house, just by the outer wall.”

“Aye, I went by and spoke briefly with one of the women tending the wounded.”

“The dead are down in the vault in shelves, the cold will keep them, as we should have time for Christian services later. The defenders lost five only, with another ten suffering severe wounds, five minor injuries. The servants have sworn allegiance, acknowledging that their fate will be swift and irrevocable if they betray us in any way. In all, the bloodshed has been light for this victory, and it is a tremendous victory.”

“Aye, but Darrow was not here—he deserted the castle.”

“He didn't know we were coming; he answered to his overlord.”

“Aye, but still …”

“Arryn, God knows, we're all aware of how badly you want to kill Darrow. But though he has slipped through our fingers, we've still seized an important castle, and no matter how fierce Edward's rages and those of his men, this is our country. We don't want it to become a rotting graveyard, not by our own hands. There is something within Scotland that Edward himself doesn't see. His armies may be well trained, powerful, and numerous, but victory over a countryside is in more than the armies.”

“Oh?”

“Arryn, this castle had an English lord before, but I don't think that ever made the people here English. I think that the majority of them wanted us to seize the fortress. Perhaps they did not feel so when the old lord was alive, but they do now. The old lord might have been an Englishman, but he knew that this castle was Scottish, that Scottish law was ingrained in the people.”

“Let's hope,” Arryn said. “I don't want to diminish what our men have done here, but what real victory have we actually taken? If Edward were to come now with his army, we would have to abandon this place. We don't begin to equal his might. He remains a threat, and he remains a power. And God help us, but it's true: Scotland is a land of different factions, and too often our own nobles are concerned with what they will gain individually, rather than with the good of the country. That's our true weakness against the English king. Our richest and most powerful nobles have aspirations to be king, and so they vacillate like branches in the wind rather than cast their fates against Edward. If we continue to fight in the name of a weak and powerless Scottish king, I fear that we fight for nothing,” Arryn said, and shook his head. “Even Roger, who is a member of his clan, knows that is truth. Balliol bowed down before Edward, renouncing his claim to Scotland. Such a man is not a rallying point for warriors!

“We fight for Scotland, and not for a king, and we fight because we have no choice. What else is there? Edward has given everything he touches to English lords, and the English lords take everything Scottish, including our wives, daughters, and lives. What men can live with so little honor? What man can look to a man to whom he owes homage and not demand that his wife and daughters be given dignity? Ah, but that sounds noble, doesn't it?”

“Aye, of course—” Ragnor began, frowning.

“Yet it's not even honor that drives us on, I'm afraid,” Arryn said. “If we don't fight, we fall prey to slaughter, again and again. We must fight; it is simple survival.”

“But do we fight all our lives?” Ragnor asked wearily. “Is there hope for us other than homes beneath the trees in the forests where we run when we can't outfight the might of the English? For surely you realize you have been an outlaw, you have refused to sign the oath—but with this siege you will make a real enemy of the English king. You will find all your holdings seized.”

Ragnor was basically right. It had been soon after the sacking of Berwick that Edward had demanded that every landholder in Scotland sign an oath of allegiance. Many men had refused to do so—though more than two thousand had, among them most of the men who would be claimants to the throne when the time came for a new king to rise among the contenders. Many men who had not signed the oath had been slain by English officials planted in Scotland. Arryn remained certain his own father had been murdered by Englishmen, though he feared he would never have the proof of it.

Just as Angus Darrow had meant to murder him.

But some had avoided the oath and survived, and like him, were becoming more open daily in their rebellion.

“No,” he said to Ragnor. “The king can seize what he will. Taking land and holding it are two different things. One day Scotland will be ours. And besides, what can any man now take from me? Nothing is left of my land but charred ruins and burned fields. Even our people who have survived have sought shelter in the forest at the base of the mountains.”

“You still provide for them.”

“We steal for them.”

“We plunder English baggage trains and take back what is ours.”

“True. But eventually we will regain our country.”

“Is that a dream we live or a truth to be hoped for?” Ragnor queried.

“Are you becoming a pessimistic poet rather than a warrior?” Arryn demanded.

Ragnor grinned. “I? I come from a long line of reckless berserkers—men who would fight when they didn't even know what they were fighting for. So I say, let's pray we live to see this Scotland for the Scots.”

“Aye!”

“And we'll drink to life, eh?” Ragnor said. “The ale here is exceptional.” He poured from a large keg of ale into two tankards, giving one to Arryn, then raising his own and drinking deeply.

“To life!” Arryn agreed, and drained his tankard. His head, he realized, was beginning to split. He had been awake all night. It was a new day. He wanted nothing more than a deep and dreamless sleep for a few hours of forgetfulness. He was crusted in blood, and he longed for a steaming bath as well. “Ragnor, summon a servant, whomever you have found most trustworthy. Who guards the tower above?”

“Young Niall of Perthshire. Thomas Grant watched until dawn, and now it is Niall who is there.”

“Good. Have him keep the watch until midday; then give it to Joshua Martin. Keep the men with the sharpest eyes on the wall as well. I don't expect trouble by night, but …”

“I'll stay awake myself until midday, then have Jay keep watch over all. You need have no fear, Arryn. We'll watch your back well for you to get some sleep.” He hesitated. “You're taking the tower?”

“Aye. Why?”

Ragnor stared into the flames. “Well, I do not deny you the business of revenge, but …” he hesitated again. “I find her very strange, the lady of Seacairn. Not what we expected.”

“Really?” Arryn inquired, annoyed that anyone's opinion of Darrow's betrothed should matter to him.

“Come, Arryn, we thought to find either a simpering, inbred idiot or a cold, calculating shrew determined on pushing Darrow into taking every last drop of blood possible to increase their worth to Edward. She is neither. She is intriguing, the men agree. Courageous, passionate—the most determined warrior in this castle, one might say.”

“So you all have been discussing the Lady Kyra?” he asked, and didn't know why the idea irritated him so.

“Aye.”

“And you find her winsome?”

“Almost noble.”

“Well. There are those who consider Edward I a noble king. And he is, to us, nothing more than a noble butcher.”

“Aye, and that's true. Arryn, we've admired her, but … we are cautious for you as well. There's not a man who does not share your anger and pain, not a man who will ever forget Hawk's Cairn. So, aye, you should take what is Darrow's; he should die a thousand deaths and rot in hell for eternity. And the woman is justly yours. But aren't you afraid you'll awake with her knife in your throat?”

“I intend to take no chances; have no fear,” Arryn assured him. “There is no possibility that I will be taken off guard.”

Ragnor stared at him, nodding; then they both turned, hearing footsteps as a sprightly man with dark eyes and graying hair came into the room. He wore a simple bleached muslin tunic and warm woolen hose; Arryn had the feeling he had recently stripped away an overvestment that would have carried Kinsey Darrow's arms. The man seemed vaguely familiar.

“My fine sirs, I have come to see if—” He broke off, staring at Arryn, then began again quietly, “Sir Arryn?”

“Aye? Do I know you?”

“That you do, sir, though you may not remember me. I was a young groom when you came here years ago, riding with your father. My name is Gaston; I'm the Briton who tended the horses back then. I came to the household after nearly being trampled.” He grinned with good humor. “You, good sir, dragged me from the courtyard when a dappled gray would have made mash of my face.”

Arryn grinned, remembering the occasion. “They shouldn't have had you in the stables. You did not like horses.”

“Still hate the creatures, sir, mainly because they hate me.” His smile faded and he went silent. “Forgive me for speaking. Morning has come. I came to see if there was something else you required.”

“You are welcome to speak, Gaston. Tell me, have you become head of the household servants here?”

“At times.”

“At times?”

“When Lord Darrow is in residence, sir, he has his own company of retainers.”

Arryn glanced at Ragnor, tempted to grin. Dissension in the household might be good for their current cause.

“But they have gone with him?” Arryn said.

“Aye, sir, they accompany him everywhere. I am a Briton, you see, and to Lord Darrow, nowhere near so competent as his own man from Sussex. However, sir, I would have you know that not only am I exceedingly competent, I am also remarkably grateful that you have chosen to seize the castle, take its wealth—and refrain from slaughtering its inhabitants.”

“Well, Gaston, I'm not at all fond of slaughtering servants, and I am convinced that you will be remarkably competent. I want a very hot bath drawn in the east tower room, and I'd also have a large tankard of Seacairn's fine ale brought there to be savored while I steam. Can you manage such comfort for me, and quickly?”

The Briton was frowning. “Aye, sir, that I can, but I've been told that the Lady Kyra is residing now in the tower.”

“That she is,” he said flatly.

For the first time it seemed that the Briton hid resentment. “Well, then, sir … you should remember that I came here under the old lord; his daughter is a Christian lass—”

“We're all good Christians here, aren't we, Gaston? If you wish to be of good service, do as I say.”

“Aye, sir,” Gaston said, bowing and backing away. “Immediately.”