Come the Morning Read Free Page B

with understanding.
    â€œI shall see to the boy,” Michael promised. “William was married to the last of an ancient family. The lad’s mother was my own distant cousin, Menfreya, who is now long deceased. The lad has no more real kin, so his friends must be his family.”
    â€œNay, good man. Be his friend, and his family, but I shall see to him, I will be his guardian now, and I warrant that one day he will be a great warrior—and then he will be my champion.”
    David, already a mature man, virile, a king of whom the united Scots claimed themselves proud, walked his great steed to the center of the carnage, where the boy still stared down at the dead man, shaking.
    â€œYoung Gra—ham!” the king called. He was well versed in all three languages that might have been spoken among his peoples, the old “Scottish” or Gaelic, the “Teutonic” or English, and the Norman French brought over by William the Conqueror and the fruitfully reproductive knights who had accompanied him. Now, he spoke the Scottish tongue, placing a heavy Gaelic accent and burr upon the syllables. The lad did not at first respond. “Graham!” the king repeated.
    The boy looked at him at last, as if realizing it was his name now being called. David—tall, lean, handsome in his saddle—looked down upon the lad, who had promise of an even greater height and physical power. He assessed the lad carefully. David was no fool. He’d had years to study the art of kingship; he’d seen the power of the Norman kings. He’d seen their weaknesses, and he knew their strengths, and strength, he had determined, lay with people.
    Though he learned much among the Norman-English, he was the king of Scotland, and he was loyal to the Scots. This was his kingdom. He weighed all men, friends and enemies, carefully. He was a good judge of character, quick to find both the frailties and virtues within a man. Now, he weighed the lad.
    â€œYou are the Graham,” David said gently.
    The boy’s shoulders jerked in a spasm. He moved at last, turning to look at the place upon the battlefield where his kin lay dead.
    â€œI am,” he said. He fixed his piercing blue eyes upon the king. He had just slain a giant. His lower lip trembled, his eyes glistened with tears. His family lay dead. “I am, sire. I, alone.”
    â€œYour father was a fine man. A great man. I cherished him, as a warrior, and a friend.”
    â€œAye, sire.”
    David looked around at the men who had survived both battle and treachery. In silence now, they watched the scene unfolding. David dismounted from his horse. He drew his own sword. Nothing so gained the loyalty and love of people as pageantry, and recognition of heroic deeds well-done.
    â€œKneel, boy!” he commanded.
    At first, the boy did not seem to understand. Perhaps he thought David meant to slay him.
    â€œKneel!” the king commanded.
    The lad Waryk fell to one knee. The king set his sword upon his shoulders. “I, David, by the Grace of God king of this united Scotland, do knight thee here and now for incredible valor upon the field of battle.” His sword still set upon the lad’s shoulders, he looked around at the fighting men of the field and his own escort of armed men and nobility. “Waryk, son of William, you are now Sir Waryk Graham, in honor of your father’s kin, and your mother’s. All here have witnessed your courage, and these events. They will know that from this day forward, Waryk, son of the great William de Graham, that though I can give you no such title now with lands to support it, you shall be known as Laird Lion, you will be my champion, and I will look out for your interests in the years to come for this night’s work. When the time is right, lad, there will be much to be gained, perhaps through advantageous marriage. Sir Waryk de Graham, Laird Lion! Your father’s honor lives on in