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about.”
    â€œMaybe we’ll never know,” Sir Gabriel said.
    â€œI think that we will. Aye, I think that we will,” Waryk told him. “Eventually. All men fight because they want something. I believe these battles are like the tips of the icebergs off the northern waters—we’ve not begun to see what lies beneath.”
    Two days later, with much work accomplished to shore up the walls and defenses of Localsh, Waryk and his men, minus those he would leave behind, departed.
    Before turning back toward Stirling, he and his men rode the border, a powerful presence in the name of the king of Scots. As well as seeing to the welfare, strength, and loyalty of Scottish lords, they stopped at a small English castle, where they were entertained by Lord Peter of Tyne, an English baron who had managed to keep his border region peaceful despite the many disturbances in the region. His castle was strong; he had at least sixty of his own men trained for battle and joust. In the midst of the trouble between Stephen and Mathilda, he maintained a strong neutrality, and, due to his proximity to Scottish land, kept a close allegiance with King David of Scotland.
    Peter was Waryk’s own age, the son of a noble who had grown up at the court of Henry I with David of Scotland. Listening to Waryk’s account of what had occurred, he seemed at a loss as well. “There is a tremendous schism in England,” he said. “One day, a man is killed for supporting Stephen; the next, five men are tortured for their loyalty to old Henry’s daughter. Strange things are happening.”
    â€œAye, but Scotland has enough of her own troubles without being embroiled with those of the English!”
    â€œHard to say, when so many Normans, and Anglo-Normans, call themselves Scotsmen. And when we all keep our eyes on David, knowing he will seize what he can to the south!”
    â€œAye, but if these men were involved in this fight between royal English cousins descended from the Conqueror, why go against the king of Scotland?”
    â€œSomeone is stirring up trouble, but who, I do not know. I will, of course, keep my eyes and ears open.”
    â€œAh. You will be on the lookout for a Scottish king?” Waryk asked skeptically, grinning. Peter was a cunning fellow, often blunt, never reckless.
    â€œAye, well, the Scottish king sits on his throne, at the moment. While the English … my loyalty lies where it is most expedient.”
    Waryk laughed, they drank together, the night wore on. As the fire in the hearth slowly died, he saw a woman in the shadows of the hallway, waiting. Eleanora. Peter had long been a friend, and if they were ever to become enemies, it would be in the open. Here, he had relaxed, weary from the perplexing battle, and he had lain half-sprawled in his chair. Now, his muscles tightened. He gave her a slow smile, finished the ale in his cup. “Peter, I’ll say good night, and accept your hospitality.”
    â€œIndeed, you must be exhausted,” Peter said.
    â€œAye, that I am.”
    â€œMy sister has waited long enough?” Peter queried, a brow arched in good humor.
    â€œApparently.”
    â€œAye, brother!” Eleanora cried. “Enough of this talk of battle and men who crawl from the forests like mindless monsters to die.”
    Waryk walked over to Eleanora. The widow of a wealthy English laird, she was now an independent woman, but she loved him, and had been his mistress now many years, though the times he saw her were far too infrequent. She took his hand, and with a subtle smile, led him through dim corridors. Soon, they were within her rich apartments in her brother’s house. The light was very low, scented candles burned. Her clothes were quickly strewn. She was a voluptuous woman, the fullness of her breasts was emphasized by the flickering light and shadow of the candles. In the privacy of her room, she was passionate, experienced. He