Chapter Seventeen
So gloomy gloomy was the night
And eerie was the way.
— Ballad of Tamlin
Aithinne spent the better part of the morning hiding in her room. Two reasons. The most pressing one was her sour stomach. The smells of cooking from belowstairs had set her to scurrying for the chamber pot at first light. Fortunately, Damian had already gone to break his fast before the urgency hit her. The other reason she remained―she was not ready to face the arrogant man again after last night.
The door opened and she jumped, fearing it was Damian. Only Auld Bessa strolled in. “I fetched you a tansy, lass, and some dried apples. It’ll ease the morning sickness.”
It did not surprise Aithinne the old woman knew about the babe without being told. A healer, a witch, she was one of the Three Wise Ones of the Wood, women who watched over and cared for the people of Glen Shane and Glen Eallach. Bessa, Oona and Evelynour were her teachers, showing her how to use The Kenning, and instructing her in the ways of herbs and plants.
“Ravens carry messages from Annwn―the Otherworld―for those wise enough to hear. Your soul kens this dark warrior. Hiding away in your room will no’ change that, lass.”
Aithinne frowned, trying to avoid speaking of him. “You prattle riddles, Bessa. I do no’ ken who you mean.”
Bessa clucked her tongue, sounding out her disbelief. “These Dragons of Challon be worthy of reflection, child.”
“Bessa, he confuses my mind.”
“But no’ your body?” Bessa chuckled, shaking her head. “Tamlyn spake nearly the same words the first time I brought up the Black Earl to her. Through the long days of my life I have seen the faces of many a warrior, and looked into their hearts. Some were good men. Some needed killing where they stood. These men of Challon possess courage and fire. They be a breed rare. Their comin’ be the will of the Auld Ones, a blessing from them. Seven seasons past, the laird of Kinmarch sought auguries about a man―one he called the Dragon. He felt in his heart this man would make a braw husband for our Tamlyn.”
“The Earl Hadrian thought Challon and Tamlyn wouldst make a good match?” The tides surprised Aithinne.
“Aye, Evelynour foretold with the first awakenings of springtide a dark warrior would come to Glen Shane. Challon. His life threads are woven with Tamlyn’s―there be no turning back for either of them. Only, the visions were confused at first, hard for our seer to understand. Slowly they became clearer. There were two men, not one. One who wrapped himself in the shade of the ravens. Another who came with the color of fog.”
This night is our Beltaine. Great magic rises. It touches your cousin Tamlyn at Glenrogha, and like the reflection of a mirror, it affects your life, as well.
“Oona spake as much to me on May Day,” she admitted.
“Aye, the men be similar, women similar. Each pair charged with protecting our glens, our way of life here. A time of trial be at hand. You lasses need strong helpmates to see what needs to be done, to fight for you, protect you.”
“Mayhap. Only, the path for Tamlyn and the path I must tread be different.” Aithinne’s heart burned. Challon loved Tamlyn. Aye, very different.
“Sometimes, lass, we make things more thorny by our fashin’ over what might be, rather than facing what is. Let life happen. Accept it.”
“If only it were that easy, Bessa. If only…”
“Mayhap it be that simple.”
Aithinne watched the witch go, despair rising within her.
Last night hurt her in ways she could not begin to understand. She loved Damian. And because she loved him, she could see that she had little sense or willpower where he was concerned. Oh, she was full of righteous plans on how to handle him, how to keep her distance.
Each time she was with him, the stronger the urges grew in her foolish heart to throw reason away and caution to the wind. She wanted a life with this arrogant man, and it was becoming clear, she little cared what the cost would be. That only made her deceit about the child growing within her womb all the more damning.
In the night, she held nothing back from him, gave him everything he asked, and more. Now in the cold light of day, she regretted her wanton ways. She made everything too easy for the vexing man. From the very start she had felt a bond to him, knew that she had given away a piece of her soul to the stranger in her bed. Wrapped up in the passion they shared, she had lain with him with love in her heart. Oh, how she loved this proud, beautiful, aggravating man!
No matter which way she turned, she could only see the devastating consequences to come, feared them. She felt the need to confess her lies, her tricks she used in stealing him from his life, using him to get her with his child. Just as she summoned courage enough to tell him, she recalled the look on his face when he spoke of Moffet’s birth, and how he had been deceived―betrayed. The complete coward, she tried to imagine if she just never told him. He made it clear he did not believe her assertion about marrying Gilchrest for the sake of Lyonglen. What will he think about her turning up with a bairn, especially one that bears the clear stamp of Challon, as all these men seem to do?
“He will never accept a second immaculate conception,” she muttered, then shivered.
Noises from the bailey drew her to the narrow window. Confused, she saw people running toward the stables. Shortly after, Challon came out carrying a bundle wrapped in his mantle. From the long hair, Aithinne judged it to be Tamlyn that he held.
Not pausing, she rushed out of the room and down the staircase, meeting Challon carrying her cousin up the steps. Damian was right behind him. Grim of face, he hesitated for a breath, stared at her with such pain, then pushed by her and up to the landing of the lord’s tower without a word.
Pausing at the first landing, Damian barked at one of the maidservants. “Send for Auld Bessa, the healer. Now!” The young woman bobbed a curtsey and nearly ran to do his bidding.
“Damian, what happened?” She caught his arm, as he nearly pushed past as if he did not see her. “What happened? Tamlyn? Be she all right?”
He tried to say something, but frowned. Without a word, he set her from his path and rushed up to the lord’s chamber.
“Men!” She stomped her foot, and then headed to the third floor after him. The door at the end of the hall was half open so she entered on Damian’s heels.
“I called for the healer.” Damian informed Challon. “I saw her about this morn, so she should be easy to find.”
Aithinne moved farther into the room. “I be a healer, as well, Lord Challon. Let me see to Tamlyn until Auld Bessa be fetched. What happened?”
Challon rounded on her, fury in his dark green eyes. “Where the hell were you?”
Aithinne backed up a step, hit by the full redoubtable power of the Black Dragon and unsure why he was angry with her. “I…I…was in my room, my lord.”
“Why were you not with her? You and your damn Kenning. Why did you not foresee this…stop this? What good are these powers if you cannot prevent bad from befalling you?” His accusation lashed at her.
Without thought, her hand reached for her amulet to steady herself against the wave of black despair and fury breaking over her. “I...sorry...I...”
“Julian, there was a guard with Tamlyn. He could do naught to prevent what happened. I know not what you thought a woman could to do. So do not blame Aithinne. You are just looking for a target to vent your misplaced anger. Save it for the one who deserves it.” Damian glared at his cousin.
“Enough, Challon,” Tamlyn’s weak voice called from the bed. Her chiding reached through the Dragon’s rage when Damian’s had not. “’Tis no’ Aithinne’s fault, so stop trying to scare her. The Kenning did not warn me. Challon?”
He whipped around, his face just as fierce, but suddenly his countenance softened as he sat down on the edge of the bed and took his wife’s hand. His other one reached out and cupped her cheek with such tenderness, such utter love, that tears filled Aithinne’s eyes.
Hungrily, Aithinne’s gaze sought Damian, desperately hoping to see even a faint echo of those emotions as he looked at her. Damian stood, arms crossed over his chest, one hand lifted so his thumb rubbed his chin in thought.
The gray-green eyes seeing only Tamlyn.
A phantom knife slashed through her heart, and finally lodged in her womb. She distantly pondered if the wee being that slumbered there felt her pain, understood her helpless misery. She bit down on the inside of her lip to stop herself from doing something rash―like hauling off and slapping the man silly. Cork-brained male did not have too far to go. How blind could he be? How many ways could she show him she loved him?
“Aithinne, could you see a bath is sent up―” Tamlyn started to ask, only to have Challon cut her off.
“A bath? Why?” He blinked, clearly trying to focus on her and not the emotions clouding his mind.
Tamlyn sighed deeply and forced a faint smile, rolling her eyes. “I am muddy, my lord. I wish to get rid of the filth and don a clean kirtle.” She glanced to Tamlyn. “Please have one sent up. And ignore my lord husband. Dragons roar and love to snort fire. He forgets gentle souls get singed when he huffs and puffs.”
Aithinne nodded, unable to speak for the tears clogging her throat. She turned to go, only to have Tamlyn add, “And take Sir Nodcock with you. I might bathe before my husband, and sometimes, I am now forced to do so before his squires, but I draw the line at his brothers and cousins.” When Damian just stood gazing at her, she snapped, “Out, Lord RavenHawke! You trespass on my privacy.”
Her words finally hit him. He nodded. “Beg pardon, my lady. I am at your service. Just call―”
Aithinne did not wait to see the idiot groveling adoringly at the hem of her cousin’s gown. Her hurried steps carried her down the staircase, straight to the ground floor and then into the busy kitchen. Once there, she instructed Cook to set water to boil for a bath for her lady, and instructed meals for Challon and Tamlyn to be fetched to their rooms this night.
Once the chores were done, she donned her mantle and rushed out for a walk by the kitchen door. In the gathering fog, she strolled toward the back of the ward, past the kitchen garden and the long, neat rows of herbs tied to stakes, and all the way back to the midden. Her melancholy seemed drawn by the refuse dump. Mayhap a reflection of her life? So much was wrong in her world and she could see no hope of righting it.
Splashes of color drew her eye. At the very edge of the midden, toward the rear of the heap, grew a new sapling, nearly as tall as her―a hawthorn tree. Already it showed a display of white blooms. The delicate flowers of five petals was so beautiful, and oddly, in stark contrast with where its roots drew nourishment. One of the three sacred trees―the others being the oak and ash―people called it the May Tree or the White Thorn. Oft, they hung a rag or a cloth from someone’s clothing on the limb, and made a wish upon it, for lore spoke the trees were magical and would grant the prayer if the person had a pure heart.
On impulse, she undid the ribbon from around the end of her braid, and with trembling fingers carefully tied it in a bow on the thin branch of the sapling. “There, my lovely White Thorn, who grows strong from the refuse of Glenrogha. Beauty from ruins. I ask no wish, just hope you grant me your blessings. I certainly need them. Come autumn, when your leaves drop, I shall return and move you to a place of honor at Coinnleir Wood, and give you the love and care so that you grow strong. I shall no’ pick your blooms, though I wouldst dearly love to take one back with me, as I ken ’tis a sin to harm you in form.”
Behind the hawthorn grew a fat bush of broom, the flowers not as prettily shaped, but a brilliant yellow. Her people used broom for protection. Obviously, Cook who tended the garden and came to dump the refuse in the midden would pluck anything considered to be weeds before they had a chance to grow very tall and take over. She had deliberately left these two, knowing they were special and granted protection to Glenrogha.
Aithinne plucked a sprig of the brilliant yellow blooms. “I ken ’tis wrong to use your blossoms in menial ways. Rest assured I very desperately need your protection. Mayhap to save me from myself.”
She inhaled its wonderfully sweet fragrance, a nice mix to the tangy scent of the hawthorn flowers. So strange to find the beauty of these two plants growing out of trash. “I wonder if there will be something beautiful to come of the refuse of my life.”
Her hand cradled her stomach, thinking of the child slumbering there. A secret smile crossed her lips. There was indeed the seed of something very special, rooting to take life within. Despite the misery flowing through her, she wanted that child―his child―craved to hold it. The bairn would come as winter lost its grip on the land, as the earth warmed and awakened to spring.
Life beginning anew.
She had come out here in pain, seeking a spot no one frequented so she could find privacy for her sorrow. Living in a large fortress saw so few places where one could truly be alone. The midden seemed the site to come shed her tears. Instead of crying, the beauty of the hawthorn and broom gave her a wee shard of hope, the will to carry on.
“He must no’ fight on the morrow,” the voice was barely more than a whisper from the shadows.
Aithinne’s head turned, trying to adjust her eyes to see who spoke to her. The words had been so faint, scarcely more than a murmur on the wind, that she almost feared she had imagined them. Then, the mist seemed too gather form and a woman materialized from it. Evelynour of the Orchard. The rising fog almost haloed her long white hair, lending her the appearance of an angel descended to earth.
Named after the goddess of the orchard, no elder could recall a time when she was not teaching and protecting Clan Ogilvie. In spite of being one of the oldest members, she appeared ageless, her years scarcely marring her serene countenance. Pale lavender edging toward gray, her eyes were so translucent many oft mistook her as being blind. Her milky skin burned easily under the sun, so few ever saw her out except at dawn or in the gloaming. She seemed most at ease in the haar, as if her coloring made her a part of the fog. The strongest of the Three Wise Ones of the Wood, her second-sight beheld far-reaching visions that none doubted. Chiefs of other clans traveled great distances to court her wisdom and seek her counsel.
She had trained Aithinne in the lessons needed to face life, guiding her in the ways of the stones and ravens. Through her, the oral history of their ancestors lived on.
After the death of her lady mother, Auld Bessa, Oona and Evelynour had each played an important role in molding Aithinne, as well as Tamlyn and her sisters. Yet, in some ways Aithinne always felt closer to Evelynour, more like mother-daughter than teacher-disciple.
“Evelynour―”
“I came with words of import for you to hear, Aithinne Ogilvie. Heed them well, else sorrow will own you on the morrow. He must no’ fight on the field of honor when the sun rises. He dies if he picks up the weapon in the stead of another. Please, child, listen. The single act shall herald doom and famine for both our glens.”
Aithinne sucked in a breath, her hand grasping the gem hanging from the chain about her neck, so startled by the force of the woman’s words. “I always listen, great mother. Your words show us the way.”
As she drew near, Evelynour switched the tall white hawthorn staff from her right hand to her left, so she could cup Aithinne’s cheek. “My beautiful daughter, child of the stones, terrible danger rides this land in the form of a leopard. A man of great power, he destroys, maims, his ugliness leaves ravens feasting on the bodies of the dead in his wake. Rivers run red where he has been. You and only you can stop him from sweeping through Glen Shane and Glen Eallach. Naught will be left standing―naught. Our strongholds will be raised, our women raped and murdered. Our men butchered. Before he be through, these two valleys will bleed red.”
Tears poured down the healer’s smooth, unlined cheek, summoning echoed emotions within Aithinne. “Tell me what I must do. I ken no’ what this be about. Why wouldst our clan be in danger from the English king? We have done naught to bring his wrath.”
“Your man will fight on the morrow…unless you prevent him. If he fights, he dies. Before his final breath he will kill another―justly, but that shall no’ mean aught to the leopard. He will come, with fire and sword, and all of Clan Shane and Clan Ogilvie will perish.”
“Evelynour, I believe you, but do no’ ken―this leopard―King Edward? Why wouldst he come to destroy our clans? He has sent his Dragons to hold these valleys for him.”
“True, but it was chastisement, not reward. He sent the Earl Challon here as punishment for daring to raise a hand to him. On the morrow, Challon will seek to take the field of honor to avenge his lady. This be the true path. The way it must be. The Leopard will accept Challon as the messenger of their God’s justice. Only, Lord RavenHawke will seek to take his place, to fight as his champion. He must no’. The Leopard shall perceive umbrage. Let no hand turn you from this purpose―you have to stop him. Do what you must―whatever you must―he canno’ fight in Challon’s stead. He will die. We all will die―”
“I ought to whip you senseless!” The voice rang out, shattering the moment. “But then that wouldst mean you had sense to start with, and I have serious doubt on that, lady.”
Shaken to where she could barely breathe, she rotated to spot a furious Damian, stalking down the rows of herbs toward her. “The last person I wish to see―Sir Nodcock,” she said under her breath to Evelynour.
Only, as she turned back to the pale woman, she had gone, vanished as she had come―with the mists. Aithinne batted her eyes, almost fearing she was losing her mind and had imagined the whole incident. So strange were Evelynour’s words. Looking down at the flower in her hand, she stared at the yellow blossom. She forced her fingers to relax, not to crush the tender petals, as she struggled to absorb the warning from her live-guide. She knew better than to disregard any foretelling of Evelynour. Howbeit, the enormity of the stark warning was taking time to sink into Aithinne’s understanding. She needed a moment alone to absorb it all, try to make sense of the confused words.
Time she would not get.
“I should strip a branch off that sapling and thrash you for your willful stupidity,” he railed.
Still trembling, Aithinne stepped between the angry man and the hawthorn tree. “You shan’t touch my tree. Any lackwit with a thimbleful of wherewithal kens to maim a hawthorn tree invites a life of nothing but ill-luck.”
“Then, I shall use my hand. You will eat your supper standing up for a week, Aithinne Ogilvie. You will sleep on your belly.” His words sounded more a promise than a threat.
Oh, why could the infuriating man not leave her alone, give her space so she could try to use The Kenning to twig the meaning of Evelynour’s dour prediction? Nay, he had to come rushing in, breaking her solitude and threatening her and her tree. Damian was beyond angry with her, though she had no idea why. The man was most fearsome. Instinct was to flee from him, but she was not leaving him to hurt the hawthorn.
She tilted her chin up in defiance and stood her ground. “I did no’ quail before the bloody Dragon when he breathed fire at me, blaming me for I know no’ what. I shan’t quiver before you, Lord RavenHawke. Save your bluster and haranguing for someone who can be intimidated. And leave my bloody tree alone!” she snapped. “I wish to go home to Coinnleir Wood. This day. I have had enough of you highhanded warlords who take sport in pushing women around. Enough!”
As soon as the words were out, Evelynour’s voice reverberated through her mind. He canno’ fight in Challon’s stead. He will die. We all will die. If she returned to Coinnleir Wood then there would be no one to prevent Damian from fighting in Challon’s place. Only, what place? Why would he take the field of honor? It was to do with Tamlyn, but she had no idea what was going on, and it was making her scared. Very scared.
He paused, closed his eyes and then reined in his temper. “Forgive me, Aithinne. My annoyance stems from my fear of finding you harmed. No one could tell me where you went. After what happened to Tamlyn―”
“What? No one bothers to tell me anything! Neither you nor your ride-over-you-rough-shod cousin. What happened to Tamlyn? You may be Lord Lyonglen now, but I am still the baroness of Coinnleir Wood, and I will no’ stand for this shabby treatment. I―” So frustrated, she gave up and started to push past him.
Damian caught her upper arm and swung her back around to face him. “Forgive me, Aithinne. Men are not the most reasonable creatures when someone they love has been hurt. Tamlyn was attacked by Dirk Pendegast…behind the stables.”
He looked down at the toe of his boot. So sad, his pain was hers, made worse because it was a pain due to him loving Tamlyn. Men are not the most reasonable creatures when someone they love has been hurt.
She finally choked out the words. “Och, Poor Tamlyn. Did he―” Images of the man, with madness tainting his hard black eyes, cornering her in the room yestereve flashed through her mind. He had thought she was Tamlyn.
“Challon and I caught him. We reached her in time...methinks.” He finally looked up, the pale eyes full of tears. “I could not find you. I feared you had gone off...I jumped to my fears.”
She nodded, glancing down at the pretty flowers in her hands, unable to think straight.
“We heard there were stragglers camping on the other side of Lochshane Mòhr. At dawn, we rode out to make sure they had moved on. When we returned, Challon seemed to sense Tamlyn was in peril. Then, we heard her scream and followed it.”
“What happened to Pendegast?”
“He and the men with him are held in the oubliette.”
“Will Challon hang him?”
Damian’s head gave a slight shake to the sides. “Nay. Challon demands Trial by Combat, as is his right. God will mete out justice. Dirk’s family is well connected in England. This must be done so Edward will accept that God decided the man’s death. It was His decree.”
She gasped, as she focused on what he was saying. On the morrow, Challon will seek to take the field of honor to avenge his lady. This is the true path. The way it must be. The leopard will accept this as God’s justice. Only, Lord RavenHawke will seek to take his place. He must not. He will die. We all will die.
“Nay!” The word was torn from her.
“I agree. Challon should not fight. He cannot fight. Ever since the sacking of Berwick, he has been sick of soul. His mind should not face this. Dirk is too good of a warrior, the best Julian has ever trained. Challon is slowing down. I fear even a second’s hesitation from him would give Pendegast the advantage. He will die. Tamlyn needs him.”
Horror washed over her as Evelynour’s words burned in her soul, crashing in her mind like breakers upon the shore. Only now did she comprehend what her teacher had tried to warn her of. Challon sought justice, punishment of Pendegast on the field of honor in Trial by Combat. In combat, the righteous warrior was guided by the hand of their God―mayhap.
As she stood staring at Damian, the words echoed over and over within her head. He will die. He will die. He will die. He will die.
The world suddenly spun and then went black.