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croich, long pleated wool garments loose enough to allow a man to fight, yet supposedly offering some protection in the folds of material. But his own mail and plate were worn over his tartan, a pattern created for his father by the finest of the wool workers of his mother’s family, the Strathearns. As much as any man, more than most men, he was a Scot. Often, he knew, priests, clerics, and poets wrote of their being barbarians. Many in the Christian world claimed that though Rome had not conquered the Scots, they should have; much had been gained across Europe from the Romans—roads, aqueducts, laws, literature, more. Waryk thought that it was true; no one could match the Celts for the beauty of their jewelry and the works done by Irish and Scottish monks in the last centuries were some of the finest ever. But they needed to learn from their enemies, he thought. If they were going to fight the Normans, they needed to be as well armed as border friends and foes.
    The armor he wore beneath his surcoat might be Norman, but he was a Scot. His father had paid for their place in this homeland with his blood. He had shed his own upon it often enough.
    He moved away from the oak. He was tired, and he was going to get some sleep. God alone knew what the king was planning next.
    And his sleep was haunted by a dancer. She moved through his dreams with steps as light as quicksilver, her cloak of golden blond hair—just touched by a crimson flame—swirled with her, ever hiding her features.
    He reached for her, wanting to see her face.
    But she swirled, and in a field of mist, she was gone.

C HAPTER 2
    They emerged from the trail through the thick-forested crest, and there she lay. Stirling.
    Seated upon her gray mare, Mellyora looked down upon the town where the king was in residence at his fortress. It was an ancient place. Even the Romans, in their quest to seize Britain, had come this far, but long before that, the old tribes had made it home. As dusk came now, as twilight touched the valleys, crags, and waterways, it was a beautiful picture. The fortress walls rose proudly, the colors of fall highlighted the sweeping dips and mounds of the landscape around them. The reflection of the setting sun upon the water gave it the appearance of sparkling with dozens of gemstones, brilliant stars that glittered and beckoned. One far field was dotted with sheep, now being herded in by a pair of lads and their dogs. Before the walls, near the water, the fishwives cried out their husbands’ catches; the clang of an armorer at work could be heard on the wind.
    Mellyora loved Stirling—the hills, the forests, the greens and mauves, the beauty of the crags. She loved all of her homeland; this was far different from Blue Isle, where the waves could beat against the rocky shore and the cliffs with a wild, white vengeance. Here, all was calm, peaceful, and serene.
    Yet, from her vantage point she could even see downriver, far downriver, to a field of tents and makeshift housing: a Viking camp. She bit lightly into her lower lip, feeling a strange level of excitement. Her uncle was near. If there was trouble, her uncle was near …
    â€œMy lady, we must ride.”
    She nodded. It was Sir Harry who had spoken. The king’s man, not her own. Sir Harry had come for her. She hadn’t thought to come to the king, not yet. She had still been in mourning. It had been inconceivable that Adin should die, and she had not been able to think, to feel, to do anything other than miss him. But when the king’s men arrived to escort her to David, she’d realized her situation. The king had sent an escort; she hadn’t insisted on bringing her own. A few men from her home had ridden this far with her, along with one of her women, Jillian, but though Jillian would ride on with her, her own retinue of men-at-arms would leave her now. They would return to guard Blue Isle, while she went on to the king. She was the lady of