Conquer the night, p.16
Conquer the Night, page 16
“Richard, you don’t understand what has happened here.”
“Indeed, I do. Listen to me; pay heed to my advice: you are a smart and cunning man—you are no fool, and you mustn’t behave rashly.”
“Aye!”
He turned back to the fire.
“Kinsey.”
“Get me ale, and leave me be.”
“My lord—”
“Get me ale, and leave me be!”
Richard wisely turned aside.
Kinsey drank heavily, tankard after tankard in a matter of minutes, wanting to spend the night in oblivion. The poor ale went straight to his head. He felt ill.
He retired to the master’s chambers when it was late. The ale had not eased the rage that gripped him. He felt dull and angry still.
Night. She was with him.
Impotent rage filled him anew.
The buxom daughter of the dead master of this house he had claimed came to him. He looked at her dispassionately as she shed her tunic and undergown and approached him. She crawled atop the bed, rubbing her body over his. She seemed to have grown more wanton with the passing days. He didn’t touch her. She continued to move against him. With no encouragement, she shifted his clothing. Her hands closed around him. She whispered things, pressed her lips to his, smiled, eased down the length of him. He inhaled sharply as she serviced him.
Enough …
But she moved up the length of him again, touching him, kissing his lips. She suddenly made him want to vomit.
He gripped her by the hips and was unhappy with the flesh he found there. “You’re built like a cow,” he told her.
“My lord?” she murmured, as if she hadn’t comprehended his words. Maybe she hadn’t. “Cow!” he repeated, and he gripped her by the shoulders, throwing her forcefully from the bed. He didn’t understand his own rage. Kyra. He had hated her at times. She was all he could see now. The fine detail of her features. The smooth, graceful, effortless way she moved. The green of her eyes, the gold in her hair. He thought of her, and of this whore he had taken.
And all others paled in comparison.
And as he had so many times, he hated Kyra.
And wanted her.
And raged impotently.
He thought of Arryn Graham’s lady wife. The woman he had taken who had stared at him, not fighting the inevitable, but ignoring him. As if he didn’t matter in the least. As if he hadn’t even really touched her….
Alesandra! What a ridiculous name for such a timid maid.
She had barely fought him, and still …
She left him feeling as if he had taken nothing. Nothing!
He hadn’t meant to kill her. But when the fires began and he saw her face, he had remembered the way she had looked at him. He hadn’t even touched her. He didn’t matter. He hadn’t bruised her, harmed her, violated her in any way because he just hadn’t mattered. Her husband would come home, and she would love him, and he would love her still…
And so, when the flames had risen …
He had let her perish.
Aye, she had died! She had burned in agony! She had died, pregnant with the outlaw’s whelp. But not even that seemed enough now. He had thought Sir Arryn a savage, like a Highlander, a man accustomed to the petty family and clan feuds of the chieftains, with no knowledge of real warfare. He had managed to murder his kin, aye, but that had been the kind of fight that such barbaric men could win, hand to hand, muscle and brawn, no strategy needed. He had considered him a baying hound with no real bite.
But now the man was moving, and moving against him, and Kinsey Darrow couldn’t help but feel rage.
The outlaw had Kyra. And God help him, he couldn’t help but wonder …
Was Kyra not glad of it all?
Jay left the great hall after Arryn had done so, feeling restless and anxious. He walked toward the stairs to the outer wall. Summer. Such a beautiful time here, with warmer days, cool, soothing nights. There were times in winter when the snows were so fierce and cold that no fire seemed to warm a man, but summer, ah, summer was the time for Scotland. The land was so rich, verdant, striking in its roll of meadow and valley, green grasses, bright wildflowers, rich, dark forests. Aye, summer was lush. And the moon would sit high in the sky, and the stars would sparkle, and it was a good time just to be alive.
That thought always made him grave, because so many of his friends and relations were dead. Not many of the people who had been friends, kith, and kin had survived the massacre at Hawk’s Cairn. Brendan, left for dead, was with them now, a strapping and handsome lad, grave beyond his years.
And his own sister, Katherine.
She had been in the manor when Darrow and his men had come.
It had been summer as well, then. Early summer, the freshness of a season just turned from spring, with warmth, richness, a redolence in the earth. The shaggy cattle had grazed in the fields, sheep had huddled on the hills, and the river had sparkled under the warmth of the sun. The old family manor, begun before the country was even formed as it was now, sat in the center of thatched-roof houses, fields of activity, valleys of produce. Orchards surrounded them, and the forest, alive with game. It was a great place, where the old spirits had lived in hollowed-out tree trunks, maidens had fallen in love with strapping lads, toothless old wiccans had cast spells, senachies had told daring tales of long-ago fights, and men had waged fair trade. This was where Kinsey Darrow had ridden to repay his kinsman’s death, and he had done so with a vengeance. There were few men-at-arms there, for none had been needed; they quarreled with none of their neighbors, fought no family feuds. And they should have been deep enough into the country, close to warring Highland chieftains, to be far from the demands of such men as Warenne, the old Earl of Surrey, Edward’s most able commander in the field—and Cressingham, the king’s tax collector, a man hated even among the English.
They should have been far from danger….
But danger had come. Darrow had ridden up, his men herding farmers and shepherds into the barn, gathering masons, smiths, artists, musicians, mothers, children. Some had screamed and run, and of those, a few had escaped, and more had been slashed down by the armed and armored horsemen who had hunted them. And in the manor, Kinsey Darrow himself had gone to search out the mistress, and he had found her, and when he had finished with her, he had left her.
They had set fire to the manor, and to the barn.
And it was said the cries of the dying could be heard into the Highlands and beyond; they were howls that tore day and night asunder, and would remain forever in the hearts of those who had heard them.
Jay had not heard them; he and Arryn and most of their fighting force were in the north, helping de Moray as he cleared a castle of its English general. The fighting had been fierce; the surrender noble. Rich men had been taken hostage, and poor men were allowed to return to their lands in England—if they had the nerve to do so. They had been in good spirits.
Until they had ridden home.
There was nothing in the world so horrible as the smell of burning human flesh. And they had seen the smoke, and smelled the death, long before they came to Hawk’s Cairn.
Arryn, at the head of their forces, had spurred Pict and raced ahead. Men had tried to stop him.
He had found Alesandra himself, the remains of Alesandra; they could tell only because of her wedding ring, the family insignia ring she had worn on her third finger.
The cries of rage and pain could be heard clear to Ireland, so the stories went. Not true, certainly. But not a man of them would ever forget, or forgive, Jay knew. Alesandra had been his cousin. Katherine, his sister, had been in the manor until Alesandra, under attack, had ordered her to go. She had escaped by striking one man with a pan, stabbing another through with the dirk she had never failed to carry in their treacherous times, and riding another into the ground. She made no pretense about the situation; she had killed, and gladly, to live.
But she remembered….
They all remembered.
Jay saw a figure upon the parapets. John Graham, looking toward Selkirk. With uncanny hearing, he sensed Jay and turned, then waved.
Jay joined him.
“A fine night,” John said.
“Aye, beautiful.”
John laughed suddenly. “And ye’d think we’d be at court, eh, Jay?” he said softly.
“You’re restless tonight.”
“So are you.”
John glanced at him. “I can feel, Jay, can ye not? I can feel it; it’s in me bones! My heart feels it, my limbs feel it … the time is coming.”
Jay studied John’s face—deep blue eyes, handsome, but with a hardened and rugged profile. “We all know well that Edward’s men seek Wallace’s army. What we question is if they know how many men de Moray brings. Can they find Wallace while he strikes across the countryside and slips into the forests?”
“Few men can find Wallace,” John said.
“Aye,” Jay said, with no other comment. John was one of them. He had gone through more close calls with Wallace than perhaps any other man.
After a moment he asked, “Can we win, John? Can we take back our country from such a man as King Edward?”
John was quiet for a long moment. “Aye, it can be done. I believe it can be done. We weren’t ready for the English at first. We showed that at Berwick, and at Dunbar. But we’ve learned. We’ve taken back so much, Jay!”
“If we win a great battle, will we win Scotland?”
John stared at him. He shuddered suddenly. “Will we win Scotland? Aye, most of it. Will we keep her? God help me, man, I do not know. But I will fight until I cease to draw breath, Jay. I will never forget … what was done.”
Jay kept studying him, then looked across the slope to the great forest beyond the castle. “We have begun here. It’s a fine place, a great, sturdy fortress. It could be well defended.”
“The staunchest castle can fall.”
“Aye, but … I wonder if Arryn sees what he has taken.”
“Does he see it … will he want to stay? Or will he fight with Wallace when we make our great blow for freedom?” John said. His eyes narrowed on Jay. “You, my friend, seem content enough to be here.”
Jay started. “As I said, it’s a fine fortress—”
“Held by a fine lady?”
Jay felt a flush color his cheeks. “John, she never rode with Darrow—”
“She’s betrothed to him.”
“But, still …”
“You’re seduced, lad,” John advised.
“Not from my senses! I tell you—”
“Don’t fear, my cousin is seduced as well. And not from his senses, I pray.”
“You feel nothing when you see her?”
“Aye, but I do. I admire the bonny lass, I do. She’s a rare beauty and spirit, and damn, my friend, but I am alive and well—and I feel lust! If my cousin were to tire of her …”
“He will not!”
“Jay! You rush so quickly to her defense! Arryn seized the castle to take it, to plunder it—and to have revenge. He will ride from here—and she will be left to her English fiance, forever changed, but alive, and assumably bitter against him for the rest of his days—which will be numbered, we hope—for the fact that he deserted her with a madman on his way! She will be left behind, Jay. To her own people, and her own allegiances.”
“But can he leave her? For the love of God, I could not.”
“Jay, Alesandra, your cousin, his wife, was murdered. Viciously. Your sister Katherine uses her hatred of Darrow and everything and everyone associated with him as a crutch to live. How have you found such forgiveness?”
“I haven’t. I never will. But was Kyra at any fault?”
“Does anyone really know?”
Jay didn’t answer. He looked over the wall. “He intends to leave her … but he can’t. He really can’t.”
“He must.”
“Why?”
“These are treacherous times.”
“For her, as well. She was raised English, and so she defends the English king. But she has seen things, and she is compassionate. She knows what happened; she was sorrowful, I’m sure of it. She has come to know Arryn.”
John arched a brow and grimaced. “Aye, she’s been forced to, one imagines.”
“She can become one of us.”
“Jay, she is not a maid, a shepherdess, or a farm wife. She is Lady Kyra Boniface, godchild of the deceased queen, pawn in Edward’s game. She will never be one of us.”
“Why not?”
“She could betray us all.”
Jay shook his head. “If Arryn chose to bring her—”
“Not to Wallace! Not to Wallace. Besides, he won’t.”
“Why not?”
“She is his revenge, nothing more. As you loved Alesandra, so did he, many times over. As you feel guilt for her death, so does he—many, many times over.”
“Why am I the only one who sees this? She really mustn’t stay. Surely, in the end, Arryn will realize it and bring her.”
“I’ll wager you my fine black stallion against the jeweled sword you took from the fat English tax collector that he will not!”
“I’ll accept the wager! Arryn will bring her.”
“Though you’d win a fine horse, if you’re so beguiled by the lass, you should perhaps pray that he doesn’t,” John said, somewhat sharply.
“Why?”
“Because if he did, and if she even thought about betraying us to Kinsey …”
“Aye?”
“Then I would slay her myself,” John said bitterly. “Slice her to ribbons, and set her afire. Good night, Jay.”
John started down the steps.
Jay looked out on the warm, beautiful night.
And shivered.
CHAPTER TEN
By the time they reached the tower room, Kyra was struggling in earnest, utterly humiliated, far more enraged than frightened.
Her flying fists had no impact on him, her words—commands that he set her down immediately—went unheeded. Then her fist connected with his chin, her nails caught his throat, and he was swearing back at her. “Wretched little wildcat! Take care, lest you reap what you sow!” he warned her, but she was incensed, and desperate—and hopeless.
He kicked open the tower door, kicked it shut.
“Set me down!”
“With pleasure, my lady!”
She landed on the bed with a force that swept the breath from her. When she managed to gasp in air again, she rose, leaping to the other side of the bed, wound her hands into fists, and prepared to face him.
But he had already turned away from her. He was studying the fire. It burned warm and bright; the servants, it seemed, were more than willing to please him.
To provide for his comfort.
She should have kept her mouth shut, maintained her distance. But she did not.
Her voice was deep with her fury and emotion—a threat, she thought, that she was powerless to implement. Still shaking no matter how she clenched her fists, she cried, “You wretched, barbaric bastard! My God, you have no right to humiliate me so, to—”
“Humiliate you?” He spun on her, staring at her. “People do not die of humiliation.”
“What you do is cruel, and you are wrong! People do not die because of humiliation? You—you and the rest of your stinking outlaws! Your pride is wounded. Edward has wounded your Scottish pride—”
“Edward has massacred Scottish people in huge numbers.”
“Because they would not bow down.”
“That’s right, my lady. We will not bow down.”
“Well, forgive me then for refusing to bow down to you!”
He watched her for a long moment. “Ah, but you have no choice, do you?”
“Why are you doing this? Why did you have to make such a show before your men, treat me like …” Her voice trailed off. She turned away from him.
“Perhaps, my lady, what I did is the greatest kindness.”
She spun back around. “And how is that?”
“Perception is an all-important element in life.”
“That I am perceived as your …”
“Whore?” he supplied pleasantly.
“Aye, that you treat me so. Is that an important perception?”
He nodded. “People perceive that you are mine. Therefore, you are left alone and held in regard.”
“Aye! Sir Arryn, I can feel the regard! Every time your men look at me and speculate about the revenge they know you meant to take.”
“Aye. They speculate. Would you have them do more? Besides, this is all your doing, my lady.”
“My doing!”
“It sounded as if you were distressed with the concept that I would leave you—for a sheep. I had to make it quite plain that you were preferable. Ah, but then, you would throw yourself from a tower, death being preferable to me.”
“I didn’t throw myself from the tower!”
“How flattering, my lady. So I am preferable to death?”
“Death, such a death, would be a surrender, Sir Arryn. I don’t surrender in any battle. I will survive this—since you’ve informed me you’ll do your best not to throttle me. But you, sir, will eventually lose. You’ll be taken, and a very sorry fate will await you.”
“Then I must live every moment—and survive you, of course.”
“Survive me? Oh, aye, I’m very dangerous!”
“That you are, my lady. But then, there are ways to avoid the danger you would offer.”
“Oh?” she inquired, but then, meeting his eyes, she remembered the way she had fallen asleep—tied to the bedposts.
“Aye.”
“So you think I would try to kill you in your sleep?”
“Have you grown so fond of me that you would not?”
“Nay, fine, let it be as you say! Perhaps you will not survive me! You should value life and safety and sanctity. And as to me, well, have done with the threats and the warnings and the torment!” she challenged him. “Perhaps I would rather survive a dozen—nay, two dozen!—of your men!”
