Conquer the Night

  Conquer the Night

  Graham Clan, Book Two

  Heather Graham writing as Shannon Drake

  PROLOGUE: THE ABYSS

  March 18, 1287

  Storm clouds filled the day, puffing, bellowing, haunting the sky. As the hour changed, so did the clouds, altering with time from a deep and angry blue to gray, and then the gray began to turn to a strange, misty crimson, the color of blood. Indeed, some of the king’s courtiers, departing Edinburgh in the evening, commented that Alexander must not travel that night—all day, the sky had been like an artist’s palette splashed with blood, and that deadly color had dripped along over the light of day until all was swept into the darkness of a still, strangely crimson night.

  And still, the night was not wholly dark.

  The storm that had threatened had come, and what might have been the ebony of evening was highlighted by the white of a raging snow, swirling, sweeping, blanketing land and air, blinding men and beasts alike. Breaking from the king’s council that night at Edinburgh, the king’s men duly noted the weather. His council was composed of intelligent men, bright fellows aware of the world around them, sophisticated. Alexander ruled over a kingdom that had been basically formed for centuries, and the people, drawn from so many backgrounds, considered themselves Scotsmen now, even those with English leanings—men with property in England, rich barons, owing fealty to two kings. It was often because of their Norman influence that they felt themselves so informed, learned and well-read.

  And yet, there were enough vestiges of the past among them—remnants of the old Picts, Scotias, Britons, Gaels, Celts, and more—that they felt very superstitious that night.

  Bishop Wishart, well regarded by the king and a man who loved and honored him in return, urged him to remain in Edinburgh. “You should stay here. A storm comes, a red storm, dark and fierce, sire, and dangerous.”

  The king clapped the bishop upon his shoulder. “Ah, but, my friend! I have a new bride, and what man would not defy the wind to reach such a young beauty as my Yolande?”

  Wishart gazed at him shrewdly. Standing tall and solidly built at forty-four, Alexander III of Scotland was a handsome and robust man in the prime of his life. His first wife, the sister of Edward I, king of England, had died, as had their young sons and their daughter, the late queen of Norway. His heiress was his grandchild, Margaret, born to his daughter and Erik of Norway. He’d had his barons sign a compact that they would honor her as queen of Scotland, should he die. A regency of six would guide the lady, should she become queen while still a child. Six—with none of them a contender for the throne himself, though he might well have a favored man among the king’s many second cousins.

  But now the king had remarried. His new bride, Yolande, was young and beautiful, and as the king was indeed feeling himself a young enough man still—a man of healthy appetites—it was rumored that he might produce a son. He was enamored of the young woman now awaiting him in their marital bed, and though his barons had sworn to honor his granddaughter’s right as heiress to the throne, it was still a king’s duty to sire sons—sons strong enough to fight for the kingdom and wily enough to hold it against greater strength. And God knew, that would surely be a pleasant enough task; indeed, too pleasant, for the king seemed now to have no interest in listening to common sense.

  “Your bride will wait another day, sire,” Wishart said.

  “Ah, my good friend!” Alexander replied. “A storm comes, aye, as fierce as a Scotsman himself, like as not! This is my country, Wishart. I love it for the bogs and marshes, hills and craigs, the beauty of colors in spring and summer—and the very fierceness of a winter storm, as wild and blustery, craggy and windswept as we be ourselves!” He looked at the learned bishop and spoke again, more forcefully. “There must always be a Scotland, Wishart. There must always be a Scotland.”

  “Sire—” Wishart began again, but the king ignored him.

  “My friends!” the king called loudly to his companions, knights of the realm, brave and hearty fellows all, “we ride hard for the crossing at Queensferry! We will ride to Kinghorn at Fife, and I will sleep beside my new lady wife!”

  “Aye, sire!” his escort called in return.

  One of the men, the very young and newly knighted Sir Arryn Graham, did not reply. Mounted upon his destrier—a gift from the king—Arryn studied the sky.

  The king’s page hurried up with his own horse. The king mounted and looked over at young Graham, a lad still not near his majority, yet already tall, honed in the pursuit of a knight’s battle expertise, and at the moment, as grave as Wishart as he gazed upward.

  “You don’t think I should ride, my lad?” the king inquired, smiling. It was rare to see such careful deliberation in one so young.

  “Nay, sire,” Arryn said gravely.

  “And why is that? Speak up, boy!”

  “The sky, sire, throughout the day, gave warning. And now …”

  “Aye, the sky. So go on.”

  “My mother hails from the Highlands, sire, and there the chieftains and the shepherds alike know the sky, as they know the country, and they know when the sky makes the land treacherous, my lord, and so it is now.”

  “Good counsel. Aye, Highland wisdom is always good counsel, but as I just told my very good friend, Bishop Wishart, there must always be a Scotland.”

  “Sire?”

  “We are this strange blend of cold and wind, flowers, thistles, moors, colors, barren rock, soaring cliffs. We are Picts and Scots and Britons and even Normans and Vikings feeling new roots. We’ve blended, boy, to something different, and so there must always be a Scotland. We are a lion, a lion triumphant. I make no sense, eh, lad? Still, I must travel on tonight.” The king smiled, a jovial smile, waving a salute to Wishart. He lifted his arm high and started off at a lope, his escort riding hard behind him.

  The bishop, already feeling a deep chill in his bones, watched them go. He was still deeply disturbed. He was a man of the cloth, no Highlander to feel the old superstitions claw at his heart. He was cold, as if the late winter wind had swept beneath his skin. Aye, and why not? The wind was shrieking like an old woman; the snow was flying with a vengeance. And still, though the white flakes fell and the night had come, the sky seemed to be the color of blood.

  The bishop turned and reentered the castle.

  The king, at the head of his men, had no misgivings. Duty and pleasure had never so sweetly combined as in Yolande, daughter of the Conte of Dreux. After the grief of losing his first wife and their children, he had reason to rejoice in Yolande. Aye, the barons were good men, but Scotland was a place for the hard and hearty; they were sworn to honor Margaret, but he needed to leave them a male heir, a leader to ride hard when needed, to swing a sword, to fight with the best of them. He needed a son. Though Scotland had not been at war now in some time, and he was proud to say that men considered his a golden reign, he knew how fickle life—and men—could be. As an eleven-year-old boy, newly married to ten-year-old Margaret of England, he’d been kidnapped by old Henry of England, then kidnapped again by Scottish guardians. He was on good terms with Edward; he’d been honored in London, as he had given honor to the English king. Nothing was certain in this world.

  Aye, he needed a son. For Scotland’s future. That was why he rode so hard tonight, he thought. For Scotland’s future.

  “The snow flies harder, sire.”

  He turned. The others had fallen back, but Sir Arryn was still at his side. “Are you afraid to go on, young sir?” the king demanded.

  “Nay, sire. I’m not afraid for myself. I fear for Scotland.”

  The king smiled. “How old are you, lad?”

  “Sixteen, sire.”

  “Indeed, you are wise for your youth. Remember this, then: Scotland is never one man. She is the heart and pulse and soul of those who claim her through their blood, and by their blood. Kings are created by the whim of noble breeding. Scotland is this earth we tread, both wicked and beautiful, just as she is the people you know, young sir—wicked and beautiful as well.”

  He spurred his horse, spewing up dirt and snow, aware that he had blinded the young man behind him, and that his escort fell even farther behind. But most of the five who had ridden with him tonight were the sons of his nobles, lads still wet behind the ears, boys who probably thought him old. Nay, he was in excellent shape, and God knew, he was an expert horseman, and beyond the prowess of his physical abilities there was something poetic and stirring in his determination to reach his bride. By God, he would defy heaven and earth to get to her.

  He gained the crossing. The others rode up behind him, winded, anxious. The ferry keeper had retired to his hut, not expecting to bring men across the Firth of Forth at such a time, but the king banged on the door. “Eh, man! Come to duty, my fellow!”

  The ferry keeper was a coarse and hale soul himself, thick in the shoulders, strong in the arms. He cracked the door, saw the king, then threw it wide. Alexander’s men gathered in close around him, huddling for what shelter they could find from the keening wind and the fiercely blowing snow.

  “Sire!” the man said, bowing to a knee. “Sire, a crossing cannot be made—”

  “My man, a crossing shall be made!”

  “Cha bu choir dhut!” the ferry man said, eyes wide, insisting that the king should not cross.

  “A crossing shall be made!” Alexander repeated.

  When the king spoke so, there was no denying him. The ferry master reached for his heavy mantle and, bowing to the king, star
ted ahead to the ferry. The storm was so ferocious by then that the king’s courtiers had to help the man untie the ropes.

  The ferry master, a massive bulk of a man both grizzled and fierce, struggled against the wind, grateful for the help he received. He looked up at one of the young men assisting him and muttered beneath his breath, “God help us all that we must honor kings who would be fools!”

  “Will we make the crossing?”

  “By the grace of God alone! Ah, sorry, lad! Forgive an old man his fondness for living. You can swim, boy?”

  “That I can.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “I wasn’t afraid for myself.”

  The ferry master cast him a quick glance. “Aye, young sir! Stay with that madman who has forgotten sanity to be a lover before being a king!”

  What they spoke could be construed as treason, so they fell silent as others came closer and they struggled with the ropes. The waves tossed; the wind rose to a new frenzy. Men shouted instructions and warnings above the roar of wind and snow and waves lashing against earth and wood.

  Horses and men at last boarded the ferry. Again, with their weight upon the ropes that guided the vessel, the courtiers were put upon to assist, and even then they battled the wind to reach the shore. Men looked to one another with cold, bleak faces. With the way the snow blew, they were soaked to the bone. With the sharpness of the cold, their noses were frozen, their cheeks were brittle, their faces hurt.

  At length, though, they made the crossing, and the king’s men, greatly relieved, cheered him.

  He was pleased to have proven his point: that he would ride when he chose. He was Alexander, powerful, virile, a king to lead men. A man of strength and stamina, he would reach his bride, and give that strength and stamina to the future.

  “Aye, sire, here we be,” the ferry master told him, and Alexander rewarded the man with a coin cast in his own likeness. The ferry master caught the coin, nodding his thanks, bowing deeply. He heaved from his exertion; there was sweat upon his lip despite the cold.

  “Aye, my man, and here we be, as I said!” the king reminded him, but his humor was good; he defied the cold, throwing his mantle over his shoulder. “Creasaibh oirbh!” he ordered, commanding his men to hurry.

  They mounted their horses, waved to the ferry master.

  The ferry master lifted his hand in return. There was something strange in his face that caused Sir Arryn, the youngest knight among them, to turn his horse quickly in pursuit of Alexander.

  Aye, kings could be fools! he thought. And his heart hammered.

  The king rode ahead, hard and fast, with such eagerness and urgency that his men could not keep up.

  “Finn, sweet Jesu! Can you see him?” Arryn cried back to the rider closest behind him.

  “Ride harder; follow the king!” called Finn of Perth impatiently. “We are behind!”

  “I canna see him; nae, I canna see him!” shouted John of Selkirk in distress.

  Fear and foreboding had come over them all.

  And indeed, the snow came more blinding than ever. Now it was like a wall of white, and the world was white and black; there were no markings. The men reined in, frightened and confused, and called to the king as their horses pawed the ground and moved in restless, uneasy circles.

  “My God, we’ve lost him!” Finn shouted over the wind.

  “We canna lose him!” John protested. “We take different trails! We canna lose the king! If we lose Alexander …”

  “We lose Scotland!” Arryn murmured, and spurred his horse and soared on through the wind.

  Alexander was unaware. Already his heart was pounding. He thought of a warm fire, mulled wine, the silken flesh of his young bride. He thought he could see, as many a blinded man has done.

  He thought he knew the path, and that his horse was as surefooted as he was swift.

  He thought curiously that the red had left the day, that the night was silent, beautiful and white against the abyss of darkness.…

  Then his horse lost his footing, stumbled, and fell. The king, swearing, was thrown. He did not hit the ground.

  Every man denies his own death. Even as his horse sent him hurtling over the cliff, Alexander denied the fact that he was plunging to his death. The crimson storm that had burned the sky and raised such a tempest had not sent him into an abyss….

  The crimson had left the sky, he thought….

  Because the red would bathe the land. Crimson, aye …

  For the future of Scotland! He had ridden for the future of Scotland! He was a mighty king, a virile king, a powerful man in the prime of his life!

  He raged! And still …

  The king was cast upon the rocks.

  Pain, ungodly pain, pain. Darkness.

  His body, broken, torn, bounced, flew, plummeted farther, farther.

  And it was true. The crimson that had splashed across the sky was indeed a foreboding of the blood that would come to bathe the land.

  Aye, indeed. The color of blood.

  It was a herald of all that was to come….

  The future of Scotland, like the body of the king, lay in a dark abyss—a future now doomed to be painted in blood.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Seacairn Castle, near the forest of Selkirk

  The Year of Our Lord 1297

  Kyra stood before the fire in the main hall of the old stone tower at Seacairn, watching as the flames rose and leapt, crimson and gold, dancing exotically to the whim of the drafts that ceaselessly filled the fortress.

  No. No. Never.

  The simple words filled her soul. She longed to shout, scream, cry out so loudly that the rafters would tremble with her denial, that the stone itself would shake and shudder with the force of her words.

  She turned from the fire and raced up the curving stairs to the chapel above the main hall. She stared at the main altar, but turned from it. Far to the right of it was a shrine to the Virgin, and it was there that she fled, falling to her knees, her skirts billowing out around her. “No, no, no! Don’t let it happen. Blessed Mary, give me strength! I will enter any bargain with God, or so help me, Lady, forgive me, but I would deal with Satan himself, to escape what fate destines for me. Dear Lord, but I’d rather die than—”

  She broke off, startled by the thunderous sound of a ram slamming against the main gate of the castle. It was an ancient fortification, strengthened and enlarged by each power to lay claim to the land, for it lay in border country, where it seemed that every race known to Scotland had once ruled. Now, under the ruthless determination of Edward I, the castle was in English hands. And with Scotland in turmoil since the death of the Maiden of Norway, vicious battle could come at any time, and the man who held a castle was he who ruled it, no matter what his nationality.

  “My lady!”

  Kyra rose and spun around as her maid, Ingrid, tore into the chapel.

  “What is happening?”

  “They’ve come, milady! Marauders, murderers, wild men, savages! Horrible, heathen Scots out of the Highlands!”

  Ingrid was young, a buxom girl who had been raised in a convent. She was convinced that most men were savages and that Scotsmen were little more than the lowest, most barbarous beasts.

  Kyra rushed to the arrow slit and looked down. It was true. Mounted men, some in chain and plate armor, some in leather, some with little more than sharpened shovel poles or sickles as weapons, were shrieking out fierce battle cries and bearing down upon the castle. They had already breached the outer gate and were in the bailey, fighting the meager forces left behind by Lord Kinsey Darrow, the Englishman granted rule here by Edward of England after her father’s death.

  She could see the hand-to-hand combat being waged. She could hear the screams and cries of the dying, see the spatter of blood as battle-axes and swords met flesh and bone. Someone cried out that those who surrendered would be granted mercy, more than the Scots had received at the hands of the Englishmen.

  “God help me!” she said softly, backing away from the window.

  “They’ve come for you, my lady!” Ingrid said. “They’ve come for you, because of what Lord Darrow—”

  “Ingrid, enough!” came a firm masculine voice. “Say nothing more to your lady!”

  Again Kyra spun around. His head hooded, face shrouded by the wool of his garment, Father Michael Corrigan had come quietly into the chapel. She had long thought that as an Irishman, the spiritual leader of this fortress would give his sympathy—and his prayers—to the Scots.