Chapter Nine
But how shall I thee ken, Tamlin,
Or how my true-love know. . .
— Ballad of Tamlin
“Princess Aithinne!” Einar rushed through the still room doorway, then fell to his knees and thudded his fist to his chest. “Riders are at the gate, demanding entry.”
Aithinne closed her eyes and prayed for strength. After fighting queasiness all morn, the last thing she needed was to face Dinsmore Campbell again. For the past three weeks, the man had done naught, but try to gain entrance to Lyonglen in every way thinkable. The Campbell knave simply refused to take no as her final answer. She feared her ruse of an ‘ailing husband’ was near end. Soon, she would have to don mourning raiments, and announce Lyonglen’s passing. She had hoped to prolong the period before sending out those tides, waiting to make sure she was with child.
For now, staring at that stringy, white-blond hair and scraggly chin whiskers might set her stomach to heaving once more. Of course, these past two morns it required little to set her lurching for the chamber pot. Putting a hand to her belly, she drew a steadying breath.
“Dinsmore? Again?” She sighed.
“Nay, Princess.”
Unhurried, Aithinne finished tying the string of yarn around the bundle of heath, milkwort, marsh marigold and silverweed, then hung them from the rafter to dry. Stalling. The nervousness in her belly was suddenly something other than sourness. The Kenning tingled, shifting through her with a sense of foreboding, pressing inward on her thoughts.
An image of St. Giles flashed before her mind’s eye. Instantly, the knot in her stomach tightened into a hard fist, her breasts stiffened. Longing lanced through her. Never seemed to lessen. Did the wanting never stop? She bit the corner of her lip pondering how could you miss someone you did not really know? Their nights together had been a mere handful, but he had claimed a part of her soul. As if she were no longer complete. No sooner than her heart whispered his name, anguish flooded her being. Wondering where he was, what he was doing. Was he happy?
Shortly after returning St. Giles to Glenrogha, tides of Tamlyn’s marriage to the Black Dragon had been carried to Lyonglen. Part of Aithinne quietly rejoiced that her beautiful cousin was now bound to the English warlord. The other side of her mind perceived it mattered little. She had looked into St. Giles’s thoughts, painfully heard his truths. He loved Tamlyn. She sensed the honor within this warrior; Damian would never wound the trust of a man he looked upon as a brother. Whilst he would never have her, sadly, love for Tamlyn would always live silently in his heart, leaving no room for another…for her.
Oh, she did not doubt he might accept her, knowing she bore the likeness of her cousin. A living hell. Each time he looked at her, every caress of his hand, Aithinne would watch his gray-green eyes, fearful of seeing the disappointment in her not being Tamlyn. She swallowed hard, forcing back the anguish.
Three sennights had passed and Damian still haunted her dreams. In long dark nights since, she had tossed and turned, her body recalling each touch, his taste, the feel of him moving inside her. A knife to her guts. With near obsession she wanted him, and worried one day she might crave him so badly she would foolishly toss common sense to the wind and risk her heart and go to him. It was misery not being with him, but a misery she could tolerate. Living with him when he loved Tamlyn would be more than she could bear. Each day would see her love wither, her soul die.
Hugh, Deward and Lewis pushed through the door, wedging themselves into a jumble of arms and legs. The more each struggled to ram past the others, the more entangled they became. She smiled at their nonsense, the normality of their antics bringing her a small measure of peace. Fussing, all three finally shoved forward, landing in a heap at her feet. Lewis punched Deward in the shoulder. In turn, Deward took a swing, only to have Lewis duck, so the blow landed squarely on Hugh’s chin. Stunned, Hugh flopped onto his back, not moving, whilst the other two fell upon each other, fists flying.
Knowing such idiocy could go on until they wore themselves out, she eyed Einar and nodded. He leaned over and picked up Lewis and Deward by the back of their belts. Sitting up, Hugh tried to take advantage of being free to swat his brothers, only Einar put a foot to his back and pushed him to the floor. Lewis tried to twist, so he could bite Einar on the thigh, but the Viking just gave him a shake, like a puppy would a rag.
“By Saint Ninian’s shinbone, you bite Einar and you will shovel out the garderobes!” Using the voice, Aithinne stomped her foot. The lads stilled, knowing she meant the threat. Shaking her head, she pitied the lasses who one day would wed her brothers.
“Sister be in bad humor again.” Lewis sighed, rolling his eyes.
Deward nodded. “She blawed the past two morns, she feels puny, she―”
“Oona says she is with child and we should treat her gently,” Hugh informed them, then reached out and punched both Lewis and Deward on their noses.
Aithinne snorted at their idea of gentle. “All three of you cease acting as buffoons and tell me who be at the gates if not Dinsmore. I certainly hope it is no’ the English storming the curtain wall, or they would capture this place before the three of you stopped fighting amongst yourselves.”
“But, Sister, it is the English,” Hugh insisted.
“English?” Aithinne had a sinking feeling her day just took a turn for the worse.
♦◊♦
Aithinne anxiously peered down through the merlons to the mounted warriors below. “Gor! That be a full complement!”
Knights, squires, even hobelars, were behind the bannerets carrying the pennon of Challon―the green dragon rampant on a field of black. Bile rolled in her stomach as she considered there would be no putting off The Black Dragon, as she had with Dinsmore and Phelan, with lies of Lyonglen being unwell.
A racket broke out behind her, same ruckus that always preceded her brothers’ entrance into any room. The three always walked through a doorway, with each wanting to be first. She exhaled disgust as their arms and legs shoved, tugged and slugged their way over the threshold.
“Och, not again! Silence! Do you never cease?” she snapped, causing them to pull up, then approach quietly.
“Sorry, Sister,” Deward whispered, peeking over her shoulder.
Sparing their immaturity little mind, she turned back to the stone wall. Dread bubbled in the pit of her stomach as she stared down at the barded riders. One knight, all in black and mounted upon a black charger, drew her eyes. Not wearing a helm like the others, the spring breeze ruffled the wavy black hair. For an instant her heart lurched, fearing it was Lord RavenHawke.
“Open the gate in the name of the king!” he called, the tone conveying he expected to be obeyed.
With piercing eyes, the warrior looked straight at the tower roof, as though he sensed her observing him. So handsome, he took her breath away. But he was no’ St. Giles, The Kenning whispered. One like him. What had her brothers said? His kinsman. A cousin. He favors Julian Challon, much the same way Tamlyn and you do each other. We thought it a fine jest. Only, it was no jest. Oh, aye, he favored his cousin. Only there was a darkness coiled within this man, something she could not quite place, as if the color of the ravens he wrapped himself in also cloaked his soul. So, this was the mighty Black Dragon, the man now Tamlyn’s lord husband.
“Who demands entrance to Lyonglen?” the Captain of the Guard shouted down in challenge.
“Challon, overlord of Lyonglen. I demand entrance.”
Stunned, Aithinne jerked back from the crenellation, reeled. Overlord? Did that mean Edward Longshanks had given Lyonglen to the Dragon of Challon as well as all of Glen Shane? Why had no tides of this been dispatched? Of course, mayhap the English king did not send advance word, fearing that under the current political clime they might use the time to supply against a siege.
Aithinne closed her eyes against the wave of dizziness trying to claim her. The Kenning said she did not want to let this English earl into Lyonglen, yet understood she had little choice. Near to fainting, she put a hand to her stomach, wondering at the cruel irony of Fate.
She had missed her monthly courses. With a sly smile, Oona pronounced Aithinne carried the child she sought to conceive; the nausea of the past two morns confirmed this. Only, had the elaborate plans been for naught?
“All this time, the Earl Challon was the overlord here and merely waited until after his marriage to Tamlyn to come lay claim? Surely, the Auld Ones jest.” Aithinne’s laughter was not mirth, but one of vapors.
Panic coursed through her to the point she could barely think. What of Coinnleir Wood? Would she be permitted to retain control of her hereditary holding, or would that, too, be stripped from her with no regard to the ancient Pictish laws of her clan?
Evidently she swayed, for Deward gently took hold of her elbow to steady her. “Aithinne, do no’ beg trouble, as you say, let us meet with this Dragon of Challon, see what he has to say. Mayhap ’tis only a formality, that you shall now look to him for guidance and protection, no’ a bad thing, do you not think? A dragon as protector at a time like this?”
He was right―face Tamlyn’s lord husband, find out what the earl wanted. After all, he was kinsman by marriage now, possibly that would work in their favor.
An invisible knife twisted at her insides as she nodded to Einar, who in turn signaled permission for the guard to raise the gate. She watched the riders enter through the portcullis, before she lifted her skirts and rushed to the staircase, descending them two at a time.
“Oona!” She called, hurrying into the tower room and going to the wardrobe. “Where are you, Oona! Annoying woman, never about when I need her.” Flinging open the doors, her eyes searched through her kirtles. “What to wear, what to wear…” She needed to bard herself in female armor, summon all her confidence she could muster to face this treacherous situation. Yanking out the dark green velvet kirtle, she paused, selecting instead the black brocade. She tossed it on the bed and began unlacing the ties at her sides.
Aggie rushed in, looking about her. “Why all the fashing, lass? You wouldst think Edward Longshanks himself has come to lay siege to Lyonglen.”
“Och, him I could handle. Dragons are another matter. Where is Oonanne?” Lifting her hair over one shoulder, she turned so Aggie could untie the lacings up her back.
“You ken that crone, about only when she wills it. Hold still, Aithinne. You wiggle like a puppy. Why all the trouble?” her maidservant asked.
“The Dragon of Challon has come, claiming to be our new overlord.”
“Merciful heaven, does the beastie breathe fire?” Aggie’s simple mind accepted the pronouncement as a real dragon had come to batter down the gates of Lyonglen. Mayhap she was not far off.
“I must figure this out, amongst other things. Have cook fetch bread, cheese and any cold meats left from yestereve’s supper,” she instructed. “And wine. The good French stock, no’ the dregs from last summer we serve Dinsmore and Phelan.”
“Stop twisting about, lass, or you will pop out of this dress. You would look a wanton with your breasts already swelling due to the bairn.”
Aithinne’s head whipped around. “What bairn?” Outside of Oona, Einar and her brothers knowing, she was startled Aggie spoke of it as common knowledge.
“Lass…lass…I have been taking care of you since you were a wee one. Oonanne can fuss all she wants, trying to muddy the waters, but I ken you breed with that man’s bairn.”
“But how? Oona only said this morn she believes I be with child.”
Aggie smiled and arranged Aithinne’s long hair about her shoulders. “A woman breeding has a special glow. That shimmer be upon you. Never have I seen you more beautiful, lass.”
“Well, let’s hope that faery shimmer dazzles a Dragon,” she said under her breath.
“Is that the bairn’s da?”
Aithinne shook her head. “Nay, but his kinsman, now mine, too. The Dragon of Challon is Tamlyn’s new lord husband. He spake that he be the new overlord of Lyonglen. That scares me.”
Aggie fetched the gold braided girdle and helped Aithinne place it about her hips. “Mayhap ’tis no’ such a bad thing, especial if he is kinsman now.”
“Where is my circlet? I want all my weapons about me.” Aithinne affixed the circlet across her brow and took a deep breath.
Hurrying down the winding steps to the Great Hall, she felt ill prepared to face her fate.
♦◊♦
Aithinne drew up short when she entered the wide double doors. It was well after nooning, so the workers had already cleared away the meal. Several now fetched wine, bread and cheese and set them on the long trestle table. She remained in the shadows for several heartbeats, studying this Dragon of Challon. Tamlyn’s lord and husband.
His hand on the mantle of the fireplace, he stood staring into the flames with a deep reflection. Word had spread through the Highlands of this mighty warrior presence―King Edward’s champion, a fearsome knight in battle. He was dressed in black, no adornments, even the heavy mantle that hung about his shoulders was of the same unrelenting pitch.
Aithinne steeled herself to look upon him. Knowing her brothers spoke he was similar to St. Giles, still that little prepared her for just how strong the resemblance was.
Putting a hand to her heart, she closed her eyes and opened herself to The Kenning, trying to brush his warrior’s mind, wanting to understand what she was dealing with in this English knight. Oddly, he was initially closed off from her. Focusing her mind, she was suddenly sucked into a vivid image of him on his knees, kneeling before another, younger man. His body jerked, choking back tears, as Challon cradled a body in his arms. A lad so very like him, he could have been this man ten years earlier. She fought tears of empathy as his intense sorrow pressed inwardly upon her mind and heart. This lad, so beautiful, was too young to have died.
Aithinne swallowed back the sorrow which threatened to overwhelm her.
She must have drawn a sharp breath, for his head snapped up and his eyes collided with hers. She looked into Julian Challon’s face, saw the madness of grief hidden within the green eyes. The force nearly robbed her of air. The redoubtable power of this man was terrifying.
Staring at him full-faced, for a heartbeat it was as if she looked at Damian. The dark green eyes widened for an instant, then narrowed on her. The iron control dropped, but only for a fleeting instant. She should have expected the reaction, after all, in the shadows she must appear so like his bride. Whilst she had been expecting a man who resembled Damian St. Giles, she doubted anyone had warned him how much she favored his lady wife.
Challon was not as tall as St. Giles; still they favored each other, enough to be brothers.
Mustering her most regal stance, Aithinne lifted her chin and strode forward to greet him. “I am the lady of Lyonglen. I bid you ceud fàilte, Lord Challon.”
“I asked to see Lyonglen,” he said quietly, but the words held thunder within them. “He sends you in his stead?”
His level stare set her to quaking, but she forced herself to step fully into the firelight. As she did, movement caught her eye. Another man was in the corner. He shifted, but the veil of the dimness hid him. Something drew her, an odd unease unfurling within her, but Lord Challon slapped his leather gauntlets against his palm, jerking her attention back to him.
She tilted her head and smiled. “Lord Challon, I be taller than your Tamlyn, and when you are near, you will see I have green flecks in my eyes. Aithinne Ogilvie, baroness of Coinnleir Wood, in my own right. Tamlyn be my cousin.”
He glanced to the man in the deep shadows, and then back to her. “I do wish my lady wife would have mentioned the resemblance. It is astounding.”
“Aye, it is.” The man stepped from the darkness and into the light.
Aithinne blinked. St. Giles. She jerked her eyes back to the Dragon, fighting a wall of emotions flooding her. Challon’s brow merely lifted at her reaction.
Aithinne tried to compose her wits. She had been pushed off kilter by Lord Challon’s arrival, and his claim to be Lyonglen’s overlord. Now she recalled The Kenning brushing her mind with an image of St. Giles. She had sensed his presence. She felt cold, as if all the blood drained from her, then she felt flush. A strange buzzing like bees sounded in her ears.
Aithinne flinched as her eyes met the gray-green ones of Damian St. Giles. A man who had been her lover. The man who fathered the child she now carried.
It took all her will not to faint.