Chapter Eleven
She must be mine, yes, mine alone,
I cannot live without her.
— Old Welsh Air
With his powerful cousin at his side, Damian St. Giles stood upon Lyonglen’s bastion, observing the two score men below. Campbell’s array of troops of foot, archers and hobelars― lightly armed and protected horse soldiers―was impressive, though typical of the Scots, a ragtag looking bunch at best. Damian was surprised Dinsmore could raise such a large force after the English had crushed the Scottish army weeks before.
“Methinks not all Scots fought alongside Red Comyn at the Battle of Dunbar,” he commented to Julian. “Campbell assumes Lady Aithinne commands here, and thus with a hail of arrows, she would crumple to his feeble assault.”
Julian smiled smugly. “Dunny Dinsmore has not counted on the Lords of Challon being in possession of the keep, eh?”
“Good thing we are.” Damian’s eyes swept down the row of men-at-arms along the wall, sizing up Lyonglen’s guard. Many were past their fighting vim, or flabby around the middle. “Overfed and not trained hard enough, eh?”
Julian crossed his arms over his chest and nodded at the assessment. “Appears you have your work cut out for you. Edward was right to send you here. The position keeps it coveted by Clan Bruce, the Comyns and the Campbells. The fief, especially when combined with Coinnleir Wood, is too big a prize to leave under the hand of a weak lord or a lady—even though she is one of these warrior women from Clan Ogilvie. Glenrogha and Kinmarch are in my possession. Guillaume shall be installed as the new lord of Lochshane, and Destain takes command of Kinloch. Glen Shane is secure. Noel will ride north to claim Craigendan Keep soon. By your taking charter of Glen Eallach, Edward shall hold the heart of the Highlands in his fist.”
Damian glanced back to the men below. “You mean the Dragons of Challon hold.”
Julian offered him a sly half-smile. “What Edward fails to comprehend works to the good of all.”
Julian’s war-seasoned knights and soldiery were interspersed amongst Lyonglen’s troops, on lend until Damian could pull men from his smallholding in Parvon, Normandy. Though he knew his face little showed recognition of the fact, he took note of the wary Scots’ eyes going to their lady to see if she raised objection to the two English lords assuming command. Witnessing Aithinne’s acceptance of the situation, her men seemed to relax. Possibly, even Englishman were preferable to a Campbell, judging by their clear hatred for the men below. Once assured their lady gave approval, all looked to Challon for orders.
Used to standing in the shadow of his powerful, older cousin, Damian did not resent this. A mantle of power rode comfortably on Julian’s shoulders that few men ever achieved, instantly drawing the respect, awe and admiration of those around him. Julian Challon was born to command. Men understood and reacted to this instinctively.
“Begin as you shall go,” Challon advised lowly. The words carried only to Damian’s ears, urging him to step into the power as the new lord of Lyonglen, before the soldiers fixed it in their minds to look to the Dragon for direction.
“Aithinne! I know you be watching!” Wearing a supercilious smirk, the blond man at the head of the troops stood up in the stirrups of his saddle, and shouted for all to hear. “Open the damn gates, Aithinne Ogilvie, or I command my archers to let loose their arrows. I give you to a count of ten. Then…”
Aithinne tensed at the threat, but Damian reached out and touched her shoulder, lending backing. She seemed surprised, wary.
Stepping so he was visible between the merlons, the right side of Damian’s mouth quirked up. “And here I wouldst have bet my gold spurs you could not count so high, Campbell.”
The Scotsman’s head snapped back and his eyes narrowed, squinting to see who mocked him. The man tried to keep the smile upon his face, but it was evident he was less than happy to spot Damian St. Giles standing on the boulevard. “I demand to see Aithinne Ogilvie. Assure myself she be safe. I come in the name of King Edward of England.”
“The Lady Aithinne is protected―by Edward’s command. You and five of your guard may enter the bailey. All ’tother remain outside. Agree to these terms or my men shall cut you down where you stand.” Damian nodded to Challon’s men to see his will carried out. Instantly, with unified precision, all the men along the wall stepped to the crenellations and presented their bows, arrows notched and targeted upon the Campbell force.
Dinsmore’s affable expression remained plastered upon his face, despite understanding Castle Lyonglen was now under the command of an English lord. The dolt obviously decided to bluff it through. “Verra well. Five it shall be, Lord RavenHawke―though King Edward shall not be happy his messenger be greeted by such a reception.”
Damian flashed a wicked grin, calling his bluff. “Aye, Edward shan’t be pleased by this.” Lifting his hand, he signaled the portcullis raised and the bridge across the dry ditch lowered.
Aithinne waited until she saw Dinsmore and the five horsemen cross over the wooden bridge, under the murder-holes and into the bailey proper, before rounding on him. “You are letting him in? Why? He be―”
“A buffoon, a liar and a knave.” Damian stopped to face her.
“Do not underestimate him, Lord RavenHawke. Oft the lowliest knavish cretin is the most dangerous man in the land, simply because they ken no honor,” she countered hotly.
He glared at her, the woman claiming to be his grandmother by marriage. Why did he lack all beliefs in her tales? Or more precisely, was it he did not want to believe? Swallowing back all the questions bubbling within him, he asked, “And what of highborn ladies, Princess? Do they know the way of honor?”
Damian almost laughed when her mouth worked like a fish out of water. He had a feeling the Lady Aithinne was possessed of a glib tongue with a sharply honned edge, a woman used to having her way in all. For too long she had run roughshod over an old man, simple boys and a silly Viking, he adjudged. Much to her consternation, she was now confronted with a man who would not dance to her tune.
“Cat got your tongue, my lady? Pity that. Tongues can be so...useful.”
Damian permitted his eyes to rove over her enchanting face, then slowly down to her full breasts, showcased in the tight bodice of the black gown. Crippling desire for her rolled through his body like thunder. Though less ornate, the kirtle was similar in style to the one Tamlyn had worn to marry Challon. Only, as he stared at this flame-haired harridan, he strangely had a hard time conjuring the image of the lady of Glenrogha to mind for comparison.
For that first breathless instant when Aithinne had stepped from the shadows in the Great Hall, he had assumed her to be Tamlyn. From that point on, his eyes only took stock of the differences. She was a bit taller than her cousin; breasts, though slightly smaller, were full, firm and high; her waist more narrow. In the daylight, her hair shimmered. Though a shade near Tamlyn’s, this heavy mass seemed kissed by faery fire.
He smiled inwardly at the faint dusting of freckles upon her nose.
Faced with the existence of Aithinne Ogilvie, Damian comprehended the blunder of his assumptions before. In error, he had seen Tamlyn’s face and believed she was the woman who had haunted his visions. As he looked into the amber eyes flecked with the dark green―a shade similar to the stone she wore around her neck―eyes he could get lost in—he nearly forgot all around him. With an odd mix of feelings, he realized he stared into the face from his visions.
Only she was his grandmother!
How cruel the Fates! He thought God laughed when he found Tamlyn only to discover she belonged to Julian. Now, he had unriddled the crux of his silly confusion over that, he was more perplexed than ever.
If Aithinne was not lying and had actually wed Gilchrest Fraser, then she would be forever more beyond his reach. The church would never consent to a marriage between them because of the degree of kinship. His grandmother! What a sick jest of destiny. He pushed away bile riding through his stomach.
First to deal with Dinsmore. Then, he would lay claim to this Pictish Princess, even if he had to make her his leman. She was his and he would own her―in one manner or another. No man would ever touch her. He would kill any that dared try, starting with this Campbell idiot.
Grabbing her upper arm, he tugged her toward the tower stairs. “Come, Princess, we must hurry to greet your ardent swain.”
♦◊♦
Aithinne rushed into the Great Hall with RavenHawke right on her heels. She was leery of what manner of farce the man intended to play with Dinsmore, fearful he was not giving enough caution in permitting the Campbell threat inside the curtain wall. She was not happy. Many oft deemed Dinsmore as no threat, for when people peered into those beady blue eyes, set too close together, they assumed they dealt with a man missing the wherewithal to be a hazard. More than once she pondered if the stupid man was aware of his lackings, and instead of trying to hide the defect, he employed it to disarm others. They failed to see him as a true menace simply due to his appearing naught more than an overgrown child. Over the years, Aithinne had seen that mistake cost men unwise enough to accept Dinsmore on face value. There was something off about the man. It made her skin crawl.
“I do no’ ken who be the bigger fool,” she raged, “the fool or the fool who receives the fool. I have struggled for several moons’ passings to keep that imbecile outside the pale of Lyonglen. And what do you do as your first act as the new lord? You invite the adder in. Of all the imbecile actions! Go ahead and cuddle the snake. When he bites you in the throat, do not whinge to me about the mistake you make this day, Lord RavenHawke.”
“You, as a woman unable to command proper―”
In umbrage, she sucked air. “Not command proper? I will have you ken―”
St. Giles shrugged, unperturbed at the sharp edge of her tongue, and continued on as if she had not interrupted him, “―did well to keep the wolf outside the gate. I, on the other hand, do not labor under the same limitations as a female. Better to see Campbell and call his bluff. He lies. Edward sent me here to assume command. No one knew that outside of his privy council, especially not some low-ranking Scottish noble, who neither supported his own people nor came unto Edward’s Peace. Now, Princess, I need a quick run of what has been happening here. By your words, I presume this is not the first appearance of this cretin at the gate. This past month he has been yapping and worrying at the hem of your gown, instead of fighting for either side in the war. Am I right?”
“Aye. He saw his chance to try and worm his way inside. The sun has never risen on the day that I would believe any of the lying words out of that pathetic excuse for a man’s mouth.”
Unnerved that he kept following her, Aithinne skirted around the table. She barely spared a glance to Lord Challon, as he entered behind them and sat in the lady’s chair, then leaned back and propped his heels on the edge of the table. Aithinne frowned at Tamlyn’s mate. When he ignored her, she walked over and knocked his feet off the table. She saw St. Giles hide a chuckle behind his hand at her daring to chastise the great Black Dragon.
“I doubt Tamlyn permits such behavior at Glenrogha, Lord Dragon.”
He grinned impishly. “You might be surprised what Tamlyn permits.”
“You have feelings for this Campbell?” RavenHawke nearly growled, drawing her attention back to him.
In response, Aithinne could not stop the unladylike snort from popping out. “Loathing, disgust, repugnance, revulsion, nausea, abhorrence―”
“Enough. I gather you hold a low opinion of the man. Something we share. Has he feelings toward you?”
Aithinne moved past his cousin, trying to remain ahead of St. Giles, just out of reach. The bloody man kept on stalking her. “Oh, aye, greed for Lyonglen, greed for Coinnleir Wood. The son of a shoat bragged he would steal me away, beget a bairn upon me, and be lord of these holdings. Before I permit that foul vermin to touch me I wouldst rather slit my own throat.”
Damian’s powerful gaze narrowed on her. “Mayhap he lacks a comprehending that you have a taste for older men…much older.”
Aithinne swallowed hard, then shrugged. giving pretense that she did not understand the meaning of his words. “Well, they are possessed of a more even temper.”
Their discussion was halted as her three brothers rushed into the room in typical fashion.
St. Giles observed the young men’s antics of pushing and shoving, before turning to glare at her. “Are they always like this?”
She sensed rebuke in his question, her spine stiffening in response. She had tried. Really she had. They just seemed to go on as they pleased, her corrections on how young men should comport themselves bounced off their ears. “Mostly.”
He frowned. “They are weaklings. Why are they not in training to be knights?”
“How dare you―” She balled her fists like she had a mind to slug him.
The arrogant man cut her off again, barking at the lads still struggling to seat themselves at the trestle table. “Enough! Sit!”
Aithinne was shocked when all three immediately did as commanded. So did Einar.
St. Giles attention came back to her, the incisive eyes fixing her with an intensity that made her look away, unable to meet the force. “Tell, me―grannie―is there aught else I should know about this Campbell? Is he aware my grandfather―your lord husband―is dead?” The way he stressed words bespoke he did not accept her lies on face value.
“Nay.” She sighed. “The lackwit might cling to suspicions. He has been most persistent in trying to gain entrance. Mayhap he has put the pieces together, and such, wishes to seize the holding before Edward passes it to some noble loyal to him.”
She moved to the other side of Challon, hoping to use his presence as a shield. Only RavenHawke reached past his cousin, catching her lower arm. She tugged against him, but his grip was firm.
“Come, Princess―”
“Release me, Lord RavenHawke.” She used the voice, only to discover it failed to have any reaction on this man. Even her brothers noticed, sniggering and elbowing each other. She glared at them silently chuckling at her predicament.
He spun her around to face him, the intensity of his eyes making her breath catch. “Do not dare the presumption to issue orders to me, Princess. You will do as I tell you—precisely as I tell you. I shall handle this greedy Campbell in my own way and pace. Know this—I brook no interference from you. You follow my lead. Do not speak unless I grant permission, and at all times you remain by my side. Is that understood?”
She started to open her mouth to protest, but words failed. No man dared speak to her in this manner. Ever!
He jerked her toward him, so they were nearly nose-to-nose. “I…am…understood?”
Aithinne’s jaw muscles flexed, trying to keep the torrent of words behind her teeth. Dealing with him was going to be difficult enough without angering him on smaller issues. “Aye, my lord.”
“Why do I feel you say aye, but compliance is the farthest thing from your mind? I warn you―grannie―play me false in this, or undermine my authority in any fashion before Campbell, and you will rue the day,” he threatened.
Inside, she quaked at the force of his promise, but she refused to quail before him. “I have done naught but rue the day since I laid eyes upon you, my lord.”
“Too late, my lady. You have made your bed and now must…” He paused, the eyes searching her face, as if suddenly seeking an answer.
Lightheadedness filled her again, as she feared once more the potions and spells had not done their work, or that the powers she sensed within him saw him more resistant.
Einar distracted her by announcing, “They come, my lord.”
RavenHawke shoved her to the left side of the lord’s chair and placed her right hand on the high back. Changing his mind, he dropped that hand and instead arranged her left one around the amulet. “There. Do not move.” He barely shoved himself into the chair, slumped down, and donned an expression of ennui as Dinsmore was escorted in. Casually, Damian reached for her wrist.
She steeled herself, as Dinsmore’s pale blue eyes ran over Damian in the lord’s chair, and with her standing by him. He pulled up short, as his gaze stopped on the Dragon of Challon, now sitting next to his cousin.
“Aithinne, what goes here?” Dinsmore queried.
Damian looked at the edge of his fingernails, then up to the Scotsman. “I did not pass leave for you to address my lady direct.”
Dinsmore’s hooded lids narrowed on St. Giles, then he gave him a smile. “Aithinne and I are old friends.” the old implying they were more than just acquaintances.
“Do not address the Lady Aithinne by the familiar, and only address her when I grant leave―”
“What the hell be this, Aithinne? Tell me, does this man hold you hostage?” When he failed to get an answer from her, he demanded, “I want to see Lyonglen. Assure myself that these English curs are not holding you and him prisoner.”
Damian’s hand tightened about hers, giving it a small squeeze. “I would err on the side of caution, Campbell, and not hurl insults either at me―or my powerful cousin. I believe you know, Julian Challon―the King’s Champion.”
Campbell had the sense to know he had pushed beyond the pale. “Beg pardon, Lord Challon. These times are trying. I be only concerned that the Lady Aithinne has come to no harm.”
Damian motioned with his hand for the servant, entering with a pitcher of ale. “Your men surely would like drink after a thirsty ride?”
“Aye.” Dinsmore looked to the men standing in the shadows, and gave a short nod, granting leave to them. “Where be Lyonglen, I seek him on urgent business.”
Damian’s countenance expressed puzzlement. “Where?” He lifted his hand and turned it palm up. “Why…here. Where else would I be? Is this some silly riddle? I just saw Edward a fortnight ago. I thought we had settled all business at that time, so I confess at some interest in this…missive you carry.”
Worry flickering in the pale eyes, they shifted to Aithinne, then to Challon, and finally back to Damian. “Jest not with a simple Scots lad, Lord RavenHawke. I asked to see Lyonglen―Gilchrest Fraser. I wish to make sure he fairs well. Rumors fly through the countryside he ails and may need protection.”
“Flying rumors are oft as reliable as flying horses, I find. Though occasionally there is a kernel of truth, too.” Damian’s eyes went to the bread, cheese and wine being placed on the table. “I have been unwell. A stomach distemper. I thank you for inquiring. Come, Aithinne, sit and eat.”
Challon arose and offered her the lady’s chair, pulling up another so she sat between the two Englishman. Aithinne forced herself to take sure slow steps since her stomach was jittery, unsure what sort of slight of hand Damian St. Giles was attempting. She watched as he sliced a wedge of cheese and held it up for her.
“Come, my lady. The cheese is soft and tasty.” Lashing out with his foot, he kicked a bench in Campbell’s direction. “Sit. Join us.”
Dinsmore hesitated watching both men, then finally sat upon the bench.
Damian pressed, “You should eat, Aithinne.”
The thought of eating made her shudder. “I wouldst rather not, my lord. My stomach likes not the idea of cheese.”
He shrugged. “See…poor lass, she still ails after all these weeks. I hope the bloody wasting illness has kept away from your holdings, Dinsmore. The only people around here that were not affected with this strange malaise were the lads,” he motioned to her brothers, “and their keeper. I am only learning this morning of what sort of mischief they had been up to whilst I was abed and am considering a suitable form of punishment for their antics. Aithinne insists they are just high-spirited and in need of a mien to vent their enthusiasm. Of course, as the new lord here, I will be overseeing their training—”
The three heads snapped around toward Damian, but his glare soon had then looking down to the plates before them. Einar frowned, but kept his eyes on RavenHawke, curious. Campbell wasn’t so accepting of the news. He jumped to his feet, knocking over the bench.
“Enough of this prattle and farce. I demand to see Lyonglen. I came on a missive for Edward to assure he be well.”
Damian leaned back. “Edward? Not King Edward, surely? He knows I am well and here carrying out his orders.”
“Not you! Gilchrest Fraser,” Dinsmore thundered as if he spoke to a half-wit.
Damian looked as if he just now understood what Dinsmore was on about. “Ah, you mean my grandfather―”
“Grandfather!” Dinsmore’s face turned red from frustration. “Fraser has no grandchildren. Everyone kens this fact!”
He shifted to one side in the chair. “Actually, he did. My mother was Gilchrest’s daughter. Of course, he was not pleased when she married a Norman knight, and cut her out of his life. Howbeit, Edward was kind enough to see the charter to Lyonglen passed to me, instead of giving it to―”
“You!” he yelped.
Damian closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead as if it pained him. “Do stop screaming all your responses, Campbell. I still feel unwell after this sickness. My head aches.”
“What sort of mummery is this? Grandfather? Charter―”
Damian sniffed. “Not that I owe you explanation. After my grandfather died―”
“Died!”
Damian glared. “I will repeat once more―sit and use a civil tone or I shall have my men chuck you outside the pale. I am Lyonglen now. Edward granted me charter, as my birthright. I have assumed command. And all have been ailing here. End of my explanation―and my patience.”
“Aithinne, what are these lies?” Dinsmore demanded. “What about the rumors of your marriage?”
“No lies, Campbell. Keep your tongue in your mouth—or risk losing it.” Damian lifted Aithinne’s hand to his mouth. “I am Lyonglen. Aithinne is my lady. And you have worn out your well-come.”
Mouth agape, Aithinne stared at the new lord of Lyonglen, sure he was insane.