Chapter Eight
Cha d’dhùin doras nach d’fhosgail doras.
(No door ever closed, but another opened.)
— Auld Scottish Adage
Damian paused halfway up the tower steps when he spotted his cousin. For a heartbeat, he remained motionless, judging Julian’s mood. Knowing his cousin well, he had an idea what this secluded meeting at dawnbreak was about. Tamlyn.
Challon would take Tamlyn to lady wife this day, but that merely made legal what clearly happened on Beltaine. She now belonged to Challon in a way no blessing of the church could ever give. Damian envied his cousin. Oh, he did not expect everything to be smooth sailing for Julian and Tamlyn. There was the concern of her lord father, the Earl Kinmarch, now prisoner to Edward. Julian had stormed the man’s castle and taken him captive, by Edward’s command. Damian had a feeling Tamlyn would not let the matter drop.
Still, their bond brought a deep yearning within him. He wanted a home, a family. He, as well, had been a warrior for too long. He wondered if he would find those things waiting at his grandfather’s holding, pondered if his grandfather would even welcome him, or resent that Edward had sent him to assume command of the fief. Well, he would find the answers to these things soon enough. He wanted to be away from Glenrogha as soon as possible.
Challon’s head turned at his approach, but he waited for Damian to break the hush. The corner of his mouth quirked up. Julian was a master at wielding silence like a sword. Usually it failed to have an effect on him since he knew his cousin too well. Only, with the big voids in his memory gnawing at him, this dawn meeting left him with disquiet.
“Rather odd, to find a man about to marry out here all alone,” Damian commented. “I wouldst think there were other…more comfortable places you could be.”
“I will go back to her, shortly. I want to honor her before her people, and have them see she comes to the union with her full blessings. I want peace here. The people of Glenrogha love their lady. Her happiness is important to them.” Challon’s eyes looked over him in an air of detached assessment, though Damian sensed that was not his mood. “So where were you these past days?”
Damian had hoped his cousin would not ask that question. Stalling for time, he yawned, then shivered. How could he explain the lack of knowing, or worse, the bizarre flashes that skittered through his mind at the odd moment? “Truth?”
“I would not have asked otherwise.” Challon’s tone had an underlying hint of shortness.
Damian shook his head. “The truth―I lack any idea where I was.”
Challon frowned, clearly not expecting this response. “I know you said that before, but I figured you just did not wish to speak about it before the others. At first I assumed you were off with some wench. As days passed, I grew concerned you had been set upon by some of the brigands from Clan Comyn, either held for ransom or killed. You worried me.”
“And here of late, I might have thought that either prospect would please you,” Damian teased, hoping to drop this line of questioning. He misliked not having the answers.
Challon turned around and leaned his hips back against the crenellation, crossing his legs at the ankles. “I wouldst never wish you harm. You have always been a brother to me. Nothing changes that. I merely warned you to turn your thoughts of Tamlyn elsewhere. I need her, Damian. If I lose her…” He paused, looking to the waning night sky, which was lightening to a deep blue. “If I lose Tamlyn, there will be nothing left of me. She is my salvation.”
Damian nodded sadly. “I know. I am happy for you, Julian. Truly. Tamlyn and you have my full blessings.”
His cousin reached out and embraced him, hugging him tightly. “Thank you, my friend―my brother. Come, we need to break our fast and prepare for my wedding. We can ponder where you were, and why you cannot recall aught of your adventure, over some of cook’s fresh baked bread.”
Damian patted Challon’s shoulder. “Go on without me. I want to stand here and enjoy the solitude a bit longer.”
Julian nodded, started to turn away, but paused. “Mayhap the Faery Queen stole you away. ’Tis what these superstitious Scots whisper. When no trace of you could be found, the serfs swore the real Queen of Beltaine came and stole you from this mortal world.”
Damian wanted to laugh off the silly notion, only he felt suddenly lightheaded. “Ah, you unriddled my secret,” making a jest of it. Inside he was not laughing.
He watched the man they called the Black Dragon go back into the castle. Once the King’s Champion, Julian had at one time held great sway with Edward, though less since the nightmare of Berwick. Strange the paths of life. Julian, though deeply troubled, had found his paradise here in this forgotten pocket in the Highlands, whilst life had set Damian―who favored him so much that people oft mistook them to be twins―upon another.
Twins. What was it about the word that sent another peculiar ripple of disquiet along his spine to lodge in his brain? His mind worked to capture the illusive feeling, seize hold of something to unravel this sense of nothingness plaguing his memory.
Half-measures never see the deed done...
The voice was clear within his head, sounding so like Tamlyn. Yet not. It was deeper, whispered, throaty. Trying to focus his thoughts on the wisp of words, striving to pull an image to match them, he failed.
“But what deed, asked the crazy man?” he spoke to the dawn breeze.
♦◊♦
Damian watched as Challon dismounted and went to lift Tamlyn from the black palfrey. The fine-blooded mare, named Goblin, had been a bride’s gift from Challon to his lady. Eager to please Julian, Moffet rushed forward to take both horses’ leads. Challon’s stallion, Pagan, nuzzled the mare’s neck, murmuring to her. Challon lightly smacked the nose of the randy horse and pushed him back, so he could help Tamlyn from the sidesaddle.
In a manner befitting a man once the King’s Champion, Challon had gone to great expense to see the wedding take place in a lavish style, despite the rush. Damian understood. Challon sent a declaration to the people of Glen Shane that while he was conqueror of this glen, he now held it and would fight to possess it. He was a man worthy to be their lord.
Absentmindedly, Challon fingered the gold Pictish torque about his neck. Tamlyn’s gift to the man who would soon be her lord husband. Emotions were clear on Julian’s countenance, how he reverenced the meaning of the present, a token to the new earl of Glenrogha.
Julian had confided he designed Tamlyn’s wedding gown. Whilst not the customary color for a ceremony, she was dressed in black trimmed in gold, her gown matching Challon’s surcoat. Damian swallowed the lump in his throat as Challon took Tamlyn’s hand and led her to the steps of the ancient kirk.
The throngs of Glen Shane’s people, lining both sides of the road, fell in behind them, following. Malcolm Ogilvie, dressed in his robes of the Culdee, stood on the top step, waiting. A hush fell over the gathering as Tamlyn’s uncle began the ceremony.
As the words went on, Tamlyn nervously glanced about her. Damian watched her, unable to take his eyes from the lovely woman. Tamlyn’s beauty had little to do with the raiments she wore. Most days found her dressed in a common kirtle and sark. He had to admit, Challon had an eye how to showcase his bride. In the black kirtle trimmed in gold brocade, and her golden hair flowing down her back, she robbed Damian of his breath.
Even so, something niggling bothered him. His mind worried, trying to pinpoint what was wrong about the woman who stood before him. It was bad enough his mind held a blank spot of what happened this past week. Now, it seemed to be playing tricks on him. Tamlyn’s hair seemed washed out in some manner.
Then, her eyes collided with his. He saw so many things in those amber depths, all so fleeting it was hard to name each. Damian recognized the time had come to let go of the false dream. Tamlyn was never his. She belonged to Julian, not only by royal decree, but by choice of her heart. His mind whispered its sorrow, be happy, my love.
Her eyes widened in surprise for a heartbeat, then the expression shifted to alarm as Challon turned, glaring first at her, then to Damian and finally back to Tamlyn. A deep blush of shame rose to her face and she lowered her gaze, clearly saying she knew it not proper for her eyes to tarry so long on another man when words were being spoken to bind her to Challon. Challon lifted a warning brow at Damian. Knowing his cousin was right to be irritated, Damian turned his stare to the priest.
Barely listening to the words droning on, he focused his attention on pursuing the Will-o'-the-wisp within his mind. He felt like a cat chasing his tail. Acceptance rode hard in him that Tamlyn belonged to Julian, only he could not dismiss that The Kenning had lied to him. So wrapped up in the preponderances, he failed to notice the Culdee had called for Tamlyn’s consent to the union. It was important for her to declare this, as the women of Clan Ogilvie could not be forced into a marriage. Their ancient Pict laws permitted the women the right to choose their own husbands. It was imperative the people of Glen Shane see Tamlyn gave herself freely to this English lord.
Tamlyn did not reply. At first there was a stunned silence. When the priest asked for her consent a second time, a buzz fluttered through the throng of people. Come to witness their joining, murmurs asked why Tamlyn did not plight her troth. The Culdee looked from Tamlyn to Challon, a flicker of question in his eyes. A flush of irritation colored Julian’s neck as the priest prompted Tamlyn for the third time.
She turned toward Julian, wearing, oddly enough, an expression of confusion and pleading in her golden cat-eyes. His patience clearly gone, he drew a breath and opened his mouth to speak, when her voice rang out.
“Aye, I take this man as my lord husband. To honor him above all others, provide him comfort, support him in times of the troubles, and give him daughters and sons.”
Challon stared, surprised by the lengthy declaration, obvious he never expected her to make such a clear assent before all.
Tamlyn radiantly smiled up at Julian, as he took her hand and led her into the church.
Damian watched them enter the ancient kirk, feeling a door shut within his heart.
He frowned. Then, why was his spirit so untroubled?