Chapter Twenty-Three
You've stolen all my heart, young sir,
Yourself you are to blame. . .
— The Knight at the Sheppard’s Daughter
Damian jerked awake before dawnbreak. Not sure what had awoken him, he reached for his sword to reassure himself it was within easy reach and out of the scabbard. The sinister feeling of being watched was increasing instead of lessening. The queer itch between his shoulder blades, one he could not reach. Not being able to dismiss it or shake the sensation, the presentiment lingered strong, and only grew.
The Kenning was speaking to him. It generally came upon him in that manner. An unease would mount for days, small flashes of images coming, generally more vivid at night whilst he slept. Most times, on the third day the visions would be strongest and his dreams would be made reality.
As yet, he could not sense from where the ill wind would blow. Was it from stragglers gathering, watching all travelers from the hills? Ever since Dunbar, Scots had fled to hide from the English, serfs seizing the opportunity to escape their servitude to some lord, and turning to the ways of brigandry to survive. Others, he worried, were Scottish rebels who slipped through the hills, mists and woodlands, hoping to attract followers to join their cause. In spite of Edward’s ostentatious display at Berwick to the contrary, resistance was rising. Rumors of a commoner, a William Wallace, were spreading across the Lowlands. The man’s father, Alan Wallace, had signed the roll at Berwick, but no one saw anything of the son. They feared he and some of his Boyd cousins plotted to cause problems, harass the new English rulers. If Edward thought Scotland was subdued, he was facing an immense displeasure. Any of these opportunities put them at peril on the long journey back.
Also a deep concern, Damian fretted over John Pendegast’s reaction to Dirk’s death. Short of tossing a gauntlet, the man had made it clear he was displeased Edward had accepted it as legal trial through combat. The confrontation that first night at Berwick warned the two brothers would not allow the matter to drop despite Edward declaring it God’s judgment. At some point, they would come at Challon, and come hard, when the advantage was in their favor. A probability that left him edgy and on guard.
Of course, he was not too convinced the trouble caused with Phelan Comyn was at end either. The morning after he had taken Aithinne in before the king in answer to his summons, Julian and he had a second audience with Edward. This time, Julian had wished to discuss matters concerning his other brother, Darian, and two other cousins sworn men to Julian—Noel de Servian and Redam Maignart. Julian had hopes of bringing the men northward at some future time. Edward, playing his usual games, said he would send Noel to claim a small holding, but Redam and Darian would remain at the king’s side for the time being. Julian and he both knew the response for what it was—Edward was holding them hostage to ensure the compliance of the Men of Challon.
When they had been ushered in to the king, to Damian’s extreme annoyance he had found Comyn already there, wearing a cat with pigeon feathers about the mouth smile. His purpose quickly became apparent: the man was present to press a claim about him being betrothed to Aithinne. Perversely, Damian entertained thoughts of beating the truth out of him, but he knew he must offer Edward the perfect face. Such a violent emotion would reveal his possessiveness for Aithinne. His mask had to say that he resented Comyn’s lies, but in an aloof fashion. He must never allow the king to know he would fight for Aithinne. With a calm he did not feel, Damian had refuted all points laid forth by the Scot, and his rebuttals were backed by Challon―a man just proven pure of heart through Trial by Combat. He was not sure what games Edward played. The king saw little value in Phelan Comyn, mistrusted his every action. So why did he even entertain lies about a betrothal to Aithinne? Damian feared Edward placed no belief or question in Phelan’s fabrications, but permitted this farce to play out to see just how upset Damian was over the prospects of losing Aithinne. More of Edward’s sinister mummery.
At length, the king had accepted Damian’s assurances the child Aithinne carried was his. Still, Comyn had not been mollified. You could read fury in his cold eyes. Surely, the man was not addle-headed enough to try to attack them on the road back to Glen Shane?
He misliked Dinsmore as well. There was something baneful about the man. Oh, aye, he was a total lackwit—or pretended to be. Notwithstanding, over the years he had come to see that nature oft balanced the lack of intelligence in men with a strong sense of animalistic cunning, a sort of man who was unpredictable, dangerous to deal with. The sly ways pushed them to bold audacity, simply because they lacked the common sense to warn them that they were doing something stupid. Just for amusement, Damian had dropped the lads’ sobriquet in a few ears―known gossips in Edward’s court. In short order, all through the land would be calling Campbell by the new name of Lord Dunny.
Running a hand over his face, he muttered under his breath, “Too many blasted enemies.”
Seeing night still held dawnbreak at bay, he slid down on the pallet and onto his side. Gently, he fitted his body against Aithinne’s, holding her back against his chest. He placed his hand on the rounded belly. Where his babe rested. He jerked it back when he felt a small quiver. The child? In awe, he waited for another sign of movement, but there was nothing.
He ran his palm over her hip, smiled pleasure to have her sleeping against him, reveled in the beauty of her body, how she was formed. He would love nothing better than to take her in these quiet hours of the darkness. Only, he had been foolish enough once this night at the pool. He would not take that risk again, not until they were secure at Lyonglen.
“A miserable night ahead.” He permitted himself the luxury of nuzzling her hair as his eyelids drifted closed. “Ah, my little liar…my precious little liar…how I love you.”
♦◊♦
Pushing the black hood off his head so he could hear better, he held his destrier in place, just listening, trying to locate the threat. The haar swirled about him, so heavy he could barely see a horse’s length ahead of him. The damn fog seemed to swallow the landscape, blanketing, muffling everything. And with the fog came rising unease. In blind panic, he suddenly spurred his steel gray steed, Galleon, back to the column. Urgency breathing down his neck, he drove the animal on recklessly, blinded by the thick mist.
He had to reach Aithinne. Save her.
He reined Galleon at a small rise in the land, pausing but for a moment to get his bearings. High in the passes he could hear ravens. They had neared the passes into Glen Shane. Strangely, the ravens were a sign of well-come―their destination now nigh―and yet, he felt the dark augury pressing down on him in the same breath. Their shrill cries rent the silence of the isolated Highland glen, telling him all was not right. His eyes searched in every direction, seeking for what was off. Startled, a hundred score blackbirds took to the sky, so many the very air seemed disturbed by the flapping wings. Their discordant cacophony set his teeth on edge. For a peculiar instant the world held its breath as the heavens were turned black. The fog swirled about him, the loch breeze ruffling his hair, as his eyes followed the spiraling path of the noisy birds.
The birds are an ill omen. The danger was near. He had to get back to Aithinne. Save her. He must save her and his child she carried.
Galleon reared slightly on his hooves as Damian spun him about-face, then spurred him, driving the great stallion as if demons chased them, rushing to get back to Aithinne before it was too late.
As he rode down the knoll, The Kenning slammed into him. He could see it unfold before him. Men lurking on the far side of the hill, lying in wait with crossbows. Drawing his sword from its scabbard, he rode in a race with Death to save her. If he did not reach Aithinne in time she would die. Nothing―nothing—mattered more than saving her. He wanted to live with Aithinne, with their child, to see his son grow strong and healthy, and become a man. Only, he would give his life without hesitation to protect her.
Riding hard, he galloped past the assassins. They were too startled to do more than let loose several poorly aimed bolts from their crossbows as Galleon galloped on past. He thought he was free―until the last one caught him in the side of his thigh. The pain almost caused him to reel, but he gritted his teeth to stay in the saddle.
Challon, already alert to a pending attack, saw Damian riding flat out to reach them. He pulled the squires into a phalanx, long shields unslung before Tamlyn and Aithinne. Gervase and Vincent were helping them down from the horses, trying to cosset them between the animals to use them as a protective barrier. Arrows plowed into the side of Gervase’s steed, the mighty horse going down in a stream of blood and agony. He saw the young man’s agonized expression, but did not hesitate before moving in front of Tamlyn, covering her with his shield.
Riders came from out of the fog behind them. Damian cursed. Now they were trapped in the midst of those using the hillside as cover to let lose their hail of arrows and the riders attacking both sides of their flanks. Challon, Michael, Dyel and several other men-at-arms, turned their mounts, spurring them to charge the oncoming riders, meeting with swords clashing. Damian spared them but a glance. He leaned forward driving Galleon toward the riders closing in on the far side.
Aithinne swung around as she spotted the horsemen arriving to their rear. Galleon intercepted them. Sword drawn, Damian clashed with one, dispatching him quickly. As he turned to get back to Aithinne, another bolt slammed into his right shoulder, at the edge of his breastplate. The pain was a fire, nearly causing him to drop his weapon. Grinding his teeth, he spun Galleon as a third bolt hit his thigh again, not far from the first one, the agony causing him to twist in the saddle. Aithinne screamed and started to run toward him. Gervase made a grab for her, but it was too late.
The arrow slammed into her chest…blood spreading over the front of her sark.
“No!” Damian howled his madness.
♦◊♦
Damian jerked up, his hand wrapped about the hilt of his sword, ready to fight to save Aithinne. His heart pounded painfully. After, several heartbeats, he realized he was still in the tent and it was near dawning. Sweat poured down his chest, as his mind adjusted to that it had only been a dream.
His stomach rolled. Nay, not a dream. The Kenning…showing him what would be. Desperately, he cast his mind inwardly, trying to recall every part of the vision, but already some of the fragments were slipping beyond remembrance, fading into mist. But not the sense of fear.
He blinked as Julian knelt on one knee before the tent’s opening. “Sorry to disturb you, Damian. We needs must ready to move out. I want to be well down the road to Kinmarch before sunspring.”
“Julian…” he started, then hesitated.
But then, Julian did not need to be told. “The dreams grow worse?”
Damian nodded. “Images are strong. We shall be attacked. It is a sickness at the pit of my stomach. Julian…this is bad. I am scared…scared I will lose her.”
Julian’s eyes shifted to the sleeping Aithinne, his face troubled. “This Kenning has saved us before. Recall the time you warned of the ambush. I know I railed about it after Tamlyn was attacked. I am a warrior. I trust what I see. I do not understand this…this…gift…this curse. But surely, ’tis not just to torture you? Bad enough we have to live through some of the terrible tragedies of life, without some higher power taunting you saying, see what will be and you can do naught to stop it. Trust this is a warning so we can save those we love.”
Damian sucked in a ragged breath and nodded. “We can ride hungry. Better than die on a full belly.”
Damian leaned over Aithinne, his eyes keenly drinking in her serene beauty. He noted the shadows that touched the skin under her eyes. She was tired, needed more rest. The journey had been grueling on both Tamlyn and her. The long days in the saddle were hard enough on men. A woman with child needed plenty of rest to see the babe roots strong.
Fear of losing her once more rose in his heart, nearly pushing him to panic. Drawing on his warrior’s mien, he swallowed back the dread. He could not afford to let his emotions rule, else he would be of no use to her. He had to trust that Julian was right. These visions were given to him for a reason.
With trembling fingers he lifted her hand and brought her strong, beautiful fingers to his mouth and kissed each one in turn. “Awaken, my lady.”
She shivered and then yawned. “Hmmm…’tis morn already?” Then, she yawned even bigger.
“That is the most unladylike yawn I have ever seen,” he teased.
“Go kiss your horse’s arse, my lord.” She gave him another yawn and stretched. “Can we not rest a bit more? I weary of this travel. I am sure Tamlyn be tired as well, though my perfect cousin never shows it.”
“Aye, Tamlyn is always flawless. Whilst you, my gentle betrothed, are naught but a swort hag—” He leaned over and kissed her freckled nose. “—and with dots on your face.”
“My lord, you be a horse’s arse.”
He shook a finger at her and she playfully snapped at him. “I am adding biting to the list of activities you are to refrain from indulging in.”
The wench gave him a half-smile. “All biting? I seem to recall you rather warmed to me biting you.”
“Take your freckles and get dressed. We move out as soon as all be made ready.” He gave a light slap on the tempting rump.
She tugged her sark on over her head. “I want to bathe in a steaming tub when we reach Glenrogha, then sleep for a week.”
“Sounds reasonable. I may join you.”
The leathern hose on, he used the cross-ties to secure his boots. The dream brushed against his mind, stirring that flutter of apprehension within his chest. His logical warrior’s mind wanted to dismiss it as naught more than a nightmare, stemming from his fear of losing her. Only, The Kenning had been right too many times for him to pay no heed.
“Aithinne,” he came up behind her, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her back against his chest. Holding her gently, he asked, “have you felt anything with The Kenning the past sennight?”
She shook her head no. “I fight the images of Berwick in my mind. I cannot open myself to it, else those eyeless bodies are there waiting. My mind blocks those horrible things rooting in my thoughts. To wield The Kenning with intent, you needs must be at peace with yourself and all around you, why the Three Wise Ones of the Woods keep a solitary life. Everyone’s thoughts, their feelings crushing in on you could be brutal. I guess why I never sought to strengthen this ability within me. Sometimes…’tis better not to know…not to see into another’s heart. It saves you pain, my lord.”
The last sentiments seemed directed toward him. He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but was prevented when Julian pushed open the flaps.
“Ready?”
“Almost.” He hesitated, wanting to tell Aithinne so many things, but the squires stood behind Julian waiting to take down the small tent.
There would be another time. There had to be another time.