The Knight's Bride

Chapter Two

Byelough Keep blended well into the landscape, nearly invisible. Had Tavish not given such clear directions, Alan knew he might never have found it. The cottages bore the same gray-green color as the surrounding hills of mottled stone and bracken. ’Twas just as Tavish had described a hundred times in the hours he had spent longing for the place. If not for the wisps of smoke from the evening home fires, Alan might have missed seeing it altogether.

He urged the English warhorse onward toward the gates of Byelough, towing his own highland pony and the two wain drays loaded down with booty from the battle.

“Who goes?” came a steely voice from the lichencovered watchtower. That tower looked nothing more than a massive tree from a distance, rising from a wall that appeared a naturally formed cliff. Ingenious. And difficult to breach, he reckoned, despite the lack of drawbridge and moat.

“Sir Alan of Strode,” he announced gravely. “I bear word from Lord Tavish Ellerby for his lady wife. Open and bid me enter.” Alan marked the two archers poised on the battlements.

A long silence ensued before the heavy gates swung open. Alan rode through. He noted immediately the cleanness of the small bailey. There were well-kept outbuildings and neatly clipped grass, what little there was of it. Even the bare ground looked raked and free of clutter and mud holes.

The few people he could see appeared scrubbed to a shine and well fed. A silent stable lad took the reins as Alan dismounted, and a young, dark-haired priest met him at the steps leading into the keep itself.

“Welcome, my son. I am Father Dennis,” the priest intoned in a voice that sounded three times as old as its owner. Alan suppressed his laughter. Son, indeed. He likely had a good five years on the holy lad. The lanky priest smiled serenely as though he divined Alan’s thoughts. “Our lady awaits within.”

Alan nodded and followed the cleric inside, uncertain whether he should have kissed the laddie’s ring. Priests were as uncommon as clean linen where he had spent his last nineteen years. They trod the fresh, fragrant rushes toward a door at the back of the hall.

Several servants arranging trestle tables paused to study him. He threw them a smile of approval for the looks of the place. Colorful tapestries softened the stone walls and the few tables already set up bore pristine cloths without any obvious holes or spots. A brightly painted depiction of the Ellerby device crowned a large fire hole built into the wall near the head table. And where, he wondered, were the hall’s dogs? Banished or being laundered? He chuckled inwardly at the image of hounds spitting maws full of soapwort. Dead easy, this ranked as the cleanest place he had ever been. No wonder Tav had loved it.

Alan silently thanked the Bruce for suggesting the bath and change of clothes. Of course, given a moment or so, he surely would have thought of it himself. After scouring himself raw with the grainy soap and drying in the sun, he had prepared his knightly regalia with care. He had ripped the yellow gryphon device off the red silk surcoat and donned the garment over the confiscated English mail hauberk and chausses.

Chain mail had necessitated the wearing of a padded gambeson and a heavy loincloth, as well. Both of which he despised. Even his hair felt too confined, its dark auburn hank bound at the back of his neck by a remnant of the torn yellow silk. Altogether discomforting, was this grand chivalric posturing. But necessary.

As soon as he established the fact that he was a knight to these people of Byelough Keep, he would change back into his breacan and be damned to them all if they thought him common.

Being a baron’s son had never counted for much in his life, but he did feel pride in his newly earned title of Sir. The least he could do was make a good first impression.

“This way,” the priest said, beckoning Alan toward the sturdy oak portal at the back of the hall. “Milady’s solar,” he explained.

“Sir Alan of Strode, the lady Honor,” Father Dennis announced in his low-pitched voice. “He comes from your lord husband, milady.”

Alan’s stomach clenched with apprehension as the lady raised her gaze from her needlework. Eyes the color of a dove’s breast regarded him with bright curiosity. Her dark brows rose like graceful wings. The small, straight nose quivered slightly as her rose petal mouth stretched into a blinding, white smile. He stood entranced, just as he had expected to. Tavish was ever an apt one for description, and Lady Honor proved no exaggeration. Alan thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Perfect.

“You are well come, good sir. Pray, how fares my husband?” She rose from behind the large embroidery frame and came to meet him, holding out her hands.

Her heavy, voluminous overgown hid her form. It caused her to appear a wee bit stout despite the daintiness of her face, neck and hands. Nonetheless, her movements proved graceful as a doe’s. Alan released a sigh of pure pleasure in the mere seeing of her.

“My lord husband has been detained?” she asked, her soft speech as welcoming as her smile. He supposed the speaking of French most of her life had mellowed it so, though she spoke the more gutteral English with hardly any accent. He recalled her father was a Scot, a baron and a highly educated man. Living at the French court a goodly part of her life would have exposed her to many languages. Tavish had boasted of her accomplishments. A woman of vast charm and keen wits, he had said.

Alan cradled her soft palms, raising her fingers to his lips. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, reluctant to release her. She smelled as heaven must, of rose water and absolute cleanliness. The woman radiated gentleness and contentment; a contentment he must now destroy. God’s own truth, how he hated this task.

Placing her palms together, he encased them in his own and shook his head sadly. “Because I stood his friend and comrade-at-arms, Tavish bade me bring ye all his love, Lady Honor. His last thoughts were of ye.”

“No!” she cried, snatching her hands from his. A fiery epithet scorched the air between them. A French word, if memory served him, and one that ought not be uttered in the presence of a priest. Surely he had misheard, but that and others like it were the only French he knew.

He watched her, in awe of the change. She paced frantically, kicking her heavy skirts forward. Her palms slammed against the needlework frame, scattering skeins of silk thread the length of the room. Then she marched smartly back to where he stood and cracked her palm against his newly shaved cheek.

Alan stood fast, hurting for her as he saw her fury dissolve into grief.

The young priest hovered uncertainly as Alan took the lady in his arms, cradling her lightly against him, muttering softly in Gaelic. He held her loosely as she repeatedly pounded one small fist against his silk-covered mail. By the rood, how he had dreaded doing this, and ’twas worse even than he had expected.

He shot the priest a look of helplessness over the top of her head. “Father Dennis, a posset to soothe?” he suggested, hoping to stir the befuddled young fool into action. Some priest, this one. Unmoving as a standing stone and about as much use. “Th’ lass is overset! Bestir yerself!”

“No! No posset!” she said, shoving away. “I’ll hear this now. All of it.” Savagely, she wiped her face with the edge of her linen undersleeve and sniffed loudly. Within seconds, she had composed herself and raised her brave wee chin. Large, luminous eyes brimmed with more tears, which she refused to let fall. Her braw courage near cracked his heart in twain.

“Come you,” she ordered briskly. She grasped Alan’s wrist with both hands, guided him to the padded window seat and pushed him onto it. She remained standing so they were near eye to eye. “Now you will tell me. Father Dennis, would you see to—” She paused to draw a deep breath. “See to my lord’s remains?”

Alan shook his head, looking from her to the priest. “I did that already. He bides little more than a league away, ’twixt the Tweed and a wee burn. That’s what he wished.”

The winged brows drew together in a scowl. “Not home to Byelough? Why?”

“He didna want ye seeing him as he was. I promised.”

She gulped, touching her chin to her chest. “How...how was he, then?”

“Met death as he met life, head up and leanin‘ forward. ’Tis all ye need know.”

“Devil curse you, sir! I would know it all. Everything. I must!” she demanded, biting her lips and wringing her hands together. A visible shudder ran through her, but then she braced up like a soldier.

Alan drew her to the wide seat and pulled her down beside him. Looking directly into her tear-brimmed eyes, he gave exactly what she asked for. “Toward the end of the fight, an English blade took Tav’s leg ‘twixt knee and hip. I tied it off and put fire to seal it soon as I could strike one up. Then I found an English baggage wain to cart him home. He died four days ago. I gave him what solace I could, my lady. Ye gave him more, I’m thinking, if ’tis any comfort at all. He loved ye well and worried for ye.”

She absorbed the words in silence, her fingernails biting his palms, her eyes searching his. Suddenly she nodded, released his hands, and stood, dismissing him. “Stay to sup and sleep in the hall. Tomorrow you may take me to him.”

“Aye, and glad to,” Alan agreed. Then he reached into the lining of the English surcoat and pulled out the folded message from Tavish. “He sent ye this.”

She thumbed the broken seal and frowned. “You have read it?”

“Nay, I swear not. The Bruce did so agin my wishes, but he strongly approved the words. Made them his own command and bade me tell ye to obey. Immediately, he said.”

The lady seemed not to hear as her gaze flew over the message. Disbelief dawned on her face, then contorted the fair features into something approaching horror.

The troubled gray eyes flew to his and narrowed with suspicion. “You wrote this! Oh, it bears Tavish’s name and is signed by his hand, but you made the rest. Foul! And you call yourself his friend? Shame on you to use a dying man for your own gain!”

“Lady, I did not...could not,” Alan protested, looking to the priest for help. “I swear!”

“You did! See how the lines waver, not his fine, steady letters at all!” Her forefinger punched viciously at the crinkled parchment.

“Pain and fever racked him as he made the marks,” Alan explained. “On my soul and all that’s holy, Lady, I canna write! I canna even read! God’s truth, I dinna lie. I never lie!”

Lady Honor turned away from him, dropping the letter as though it were filth. The priest picked it up and read. Alan heard him gasp. “You are to marry!” Father Dennis exclaimed.

So that was all. Ah well, Alan understood now. The poor lass hated being dished out like a treat to whomever Tavish wanted to hold his lands. He could not blame her in the least.

Marry, indeed! Why, she needed time to accept Tav’s death. He would see she got her time, and no mistake. All the time she wanted. The hell with Bruce.

He laid a hand on her back and patted gently. “I’ll bide and protect ye, my lady. I’m certain Tav only wanted to—”

She rounded on him with her hands on her hips, leaning forward with her chin up. “What about what I want? I have no wish to wed anyone. Especially not you!”

“Me?” Alan heard the word croak out of his mouth, leaving a bad taste behind. Then another followed, more in the nature of a groan. “Marry?” He backed up and dropped to the window seat, his knees too weak to hold him. “Oh, shite!”

“Just so!” Lady Honor snatched the letter from the priest’s hand and, crumpling it under Alan’s nose, assaulted him in rapid French. Still shocked by Tav’s orders and unable to grasp more than the occasional word, he simply stared at her until she switched to English.

“Saints! He has commanded us to wed this day! This very day! He swore that he loved me and now he demands that I marry a—”

. “A what?”

“A highland savage,” she retorted, shaking a finger under his nose. “Mais oui, I can tell by your speech that is what you are in spite of that fine mail you wear! And ignorant, as well, by your own admission!”

“Unlettered, Lady. ‘Tis not the same as ignorant. And de’il take ye wi’ all yer plaguey French airs! Ye’re still a Scot yersel’!”

“Praise God, only half!” she shouted.

“Then I wish to God ‘twas th’ upper half wi’ th’ mouth!”

She gaped. Her chest heaved up and down like a bellows. Alan wrestled with his anger until he had a firm grip on it. Surely ’twas only her grief speaking here. Shock had undone her, and him carrying on as if she were to blame for it all.

“Why would my husband do this to me?” she demanded, turning to the priest.

“Well, how d‘ye think I feel, eh?” Alan countered. “Trapped, is what! Bound by a stout chain of friendship reachin’ inta th’ verra grave. Hist, I’d as lief fall on my dirk as surrender my freedom, but my word’s my word, by God!” He slapped his forehead and groaned toward the ceiling. “Och, Tav, what’ve ye wrought us here? What have ye done?”

He fumed. She paced. He could hear the scuffing of her feet through the rushes, the rustle of skirts about her legs. The sounds were near as loud as the thudding of his heart.

Alan realized Tavish had no way of knowing the words he had written to his wife had gone unread that night. And just who bore the fault for that misunderstanding? Alan himself, none other. Tav had asked whether Alan agreed to the missive and got a ready answer for his trouble. Aye, braw advice. Ha!

That had been as near to a lie as Alan ever uttered, and it troubled him sorely. Everyone he knew remarked on his word and how he could be trusted to speak nothing but the truth in all matters, never mind the consequences he must suffer for it. That was a thing of great pride for a man who had little else in the world to recommend him. His departure from honesty—even in such a small way—had brought on disaster.

Lady Honor spoke truer than she knew just now, he thought. He had acted as ignorant as the barmiest village idiot in this. How stupid to agree to a thing when he had no idea what it was. Just proved what he had always known. A lie, even a near lie, led to one sort of perdition or another. This one had cost him his freedom. And the poor lady, her peace of mind.

Oh, he admitted he might have imagined himself lolling about a castle with a well-born woman now and again, especially when Tavish had waxed poetic about his own, but Alan knew very well such a life did not suit him. He had been thrust out of that sort of existence and into a rugged bachelor household too early on. But not so early that he did not know what he had lost by the move. To be perfectly honest—and he strove always to be honest, if nothing else—Alan simply was not equipped to deal with marriage and family life. Even if he wanted to, he did not know how. Now, due to this almost lie of his, he knew he must team.

Father Dennis cleared his throat. “Pardon, sir, my lady, but the hour grows late. If there is to be a wedding—”

“No!” she shouted, throwing up her hands.

“Aye!” Alan declared, rising again on steadier legs. “Go, Father, and gather all who will come to yer chapel.”

“We have no chapel, sir. The hall must do.”

“There will be no wedding!” the lady said heatedly, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Leave us, Father, and make ready,” Alan repeated. When the door had closed, he turned to his new intended. She looked ready to scratch out his eyes and he could hardly blame her.

He forced himself to speak calmly, reasonably. “If ye loved yer husband, Lady Honor, ye must mind his last wishes.”

“That fever you spoke of baked his brain! Rightminded, Tavish would never have wished this on me. Or on you,” she added belatedly, obviously hoping now to enlist him in her rebellion.

Alan wondered if she had the right of it. Had the fever affected Tav’s mind? No matter. “Even were that true, my lady, Bruce made Tav’s wish a command. We dare not go agin’ the king.”

She laughed, a mirthless sound if he had ever heard one. “La! King, indeed!”

“Aye, well, he is that and owns Scotland now. Ye might flee to France and yer father if ye wish to escape the royal wrath. Where am I to go, then?”

In truth, he had no fear left of Robert Bruce. The man would either kill him or not, and everyone died sooner or later. He only thought to stir a bit of guilt in the lass. She had hurt his feelings, calling him ignorant. Even if it was true, she had no call to treat him as pig droppings on her foot.

Her fury seemed to die out on the instant and leave her sad. The tears were back, trailing one after another down those petal soft cheeks. “You don’t want this any more than I,” she said softly.

“Ye have the right of that. But ’tis a matter of duty now, yer own as well as mine. Tavish asked it of us.”

He cocked a brow and gave her a half smile for her forlorn little nod of agreement. “I know ye grieve for him, sweet lady, as do I. But come now and we’ll make the best of it, eh? ’Tis all we can do for him.”

“Wait!” she cried as he grasped her hand more firmly and headed for the door. “Hold a moment, sir. We must speak further before we do this thing.”