Page 136 of Come the Morning

He suddenly took it off, as if he were reading her mind. He smiled. He had sandy blond hair, cool eyes, a clean-shaven face. He might have been a handsome man. He even had something of a look that reminded her of Anne. But there was something about him that wasn’t quite right as well. Something in his eyes, in the twist of his jaw.

“Surrender, Mellyora.”

“Leave, Hallsteader, or die!”

“Ah, lady, you’ll be worth the fight!”

He rode to Renfrew and conferred with him. She heard his laughter once again. It held an evil twist, a sound that seemed to carry loud and clear on the air. She realized suddenly why he was so very frightening. Nothing meant anything to him, except his quest. He could take any risk, perform any deed, because he meant to have his way—or die. If he perished in his quest, he would sit at the high table at Valhalla. And if he did not …

His laughter rang out again. And once again …

Waryk rode with Daro at his side, Angus, Ragnar, and Peter close behind them. The fastest of their horsemen hurried with them; the foot soldiers would follow behind, they didn’t dare wait for such troops to follow their lead.

He was afraid, deeply afraid. She was free now, Phagin had said that she was free. Strange, when she’d been in the deepest danger, he’d thought her Daro’s prisoner. And he had known that Daro would never hurt her. He hadn’t the sense to be terrified when she’d been seized because he hadn’t realized thatit had been a Hallsteader who had taken her. A clever man. Plotting and planning year after year. Causing irritation after irritation. Never betraying himself. And now …

Mellyora had now escaped, but she had been Hallsteader’s prisoner. He’d had her in his power. For how long? Where had he taken her, what had he done to her, had she really survived it in her heart, in her mind? Would she ever forgive him for the doubts he’d had which had cost them all so much?

He’d cast blame upon her. Upon the Vikings, upon Daro.

And all along, the enemy had been his, his from a distant time, a distant day. A man seeking vengeance, for the vengeance he had wrought …

“Run, Mercury, run, race, like the wind, boy, race like the wind!” he urged, and, looking over at Daro, he spurred his horse to greater speed.

What would Hallsteader do next?

Hurt her, use her, wound her, to wound him. Take her, because she was his. A Viking’s daughter, he would think he had more right to her. To Blue Isle. Any man knew that she was the key to the power there, and any man would learn that the lady was the prize …

She carried his child. Hallsteader couldn’t know such a thing. He would want to take her, use her, and if he could not kill Waryk, taunt him for as long as they lived with the belief that his wife might bear another man’s child …

But, he realized, it had ceased to matter. He wanted only one thing.

His wife.

Ulric had dismounted. He stood on the green slope below the wall. His men dragged a woman toward him, and Mellyora bit into her lower lip, startled to see that the woman was Eleanora of Tyne. “Look who arrived here for safety, my lady! Now, I haven’ttime to ram the gates, Mellyora MacAdin. I’m well aware your husband is close behind!” he called.

“Is there no way we can reach him with a hail of arrows?” she asked Jon of Wick, standing at her side.

He shook his head. “He’s just out of range.”

“What is he up to? He has taken Eleanora …”

“Come out and ride with me that I can negotiate with your husband, Mellyora. If you do not, I will slit her throat.”

Slit Eleanora’s throat? To what sense, she wondered.

She hadn’t asked the question aloud; he meant to answer her anyway.

“Peter and Eleanora are traitors to the English cause of King Stephen, my lady. I will not be amiss in such a simple execution!” Lord Etienne Renfrew suddenly cried out, joining in with Hallsteader’s claim.

“You will die a slow death, Hallsteader!” she found herself crying in return. She winced. She hadn’t intended to let them know she was concerned.

Waryk could not be far behind. Nor could Daro.

Unless Phagin hadn’t reached them. Unless they had already massacred one another and their troops …

“It’s so very simple …” Ulric shouted. He left Eleanora standing as she had been, hands tied behind her back. He walked back through the ranks of his cavalry and then reappeared, dragging a man behind him who wore Peter’s colors of Tyne. The man was middle-aged, graying, dignified. He didn’t glance at Ulric, but stood very straight. He brought the man next to Eleanora, whispered something to him, then looked back at the gates. “Mellyora MacAdin. This is Walter of Tyne. He has served young Peter and Eleanora since they were children. He has told me that he would gladly die for them.”

Finishing his speech, Ulric smiled. Then, in a split second, he brought his knife to the man’s throat, and ripped it open. Athis side, Eleanora screamed, wrenching away in pure horror. Mellyora lived in a violent world in which she’d seen death far too many times; and still, she’d never witnessed so brutally cold an act in all her life. She choked, clutching her stomach, backing away from the wall.