Excerpt of Conquer the Night by 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. "All, 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 Queeusferry! 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…”