Chapter Eighteen
Black, black, black
is the color of my true love's hair...
— 18th Century English Ballad
Aithinne stirred, slipping deeper into sleep. She felt warm, secure.
Until the dream came…
Aithinne raced through the foggy morn, bright rays of the rising sun punching through the haar, piercing it with blinding shafts of white light. It burned her eyes, nearly blinded her with the peculiar brilliance. She searched, desperately. She had to find him.
Mighty destriers barded for combat were being led to the field, and throngs of people milled about, walking by her, around her, bumping into her, spinning her about, faceless, though their fear seemed to hang almost tangible in the air. She pushed, shoved against them, trying to reach Damian. She had to find Damian. Stop him from throwing his life away.
He was going to fight. And if he fought he would die.
Then, she spotted him at the far end of the field.
Several people again moved between them, paying little attention to how urgently she battled to reach him. Hindered by their shifting positions, Aithinne could only see glimpses of the tall knight. She struggled against the careless bodies, bumping into them, trying to shove by them—furious at the serfs for blocking her path to him. Finally, they parted and stepped to the sides, and she stared the beautiful warrior in the face.
All she could see was Damian St. Giles.
There was a vital, elemental power that emanated from this special warrior―fire of a Dragon of Challon. Hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she watched him. The armour, covering his upper arms and thighs, and the mail habergeon were dark steel, the shirt and surcoat grey. Another who comes with the color of fog.
The breeze stirred the black, wavy locks touched with a hint of dark fire, a mark of one bearing ancient Celtic blood. Long, curling softly about his ears, it brushed the metal gorget that covered the back of his neck.
Aithinne’s breath caught and held as she stared into the gray-green eyes, shade of the foggy passes of Glen Shane in early morn. He was handsome—nay, beautiful. And she loved him so. Loved him more than life.
He stood calmly whilst a squire buckled the metal greave, which covered his knee and shin. Despite the heavy mail and plate weighing on his body, he stood with a regal bearing at the center of the men, readying him for Trial by Combat. Infuriatingly, the stupid man appeared to all as if he did not hold a care in the world.
He accepted the leathern gauntlets from another squire, Dyel, but did not put them on. His attention remained fixed on Aithinne as she approached. Reaching out, his elegant fingers captured her trembling chin and lifted it, forcing her not to turn away from his probing stare. She gazed at the arresting eyes, ringed with long lashes, as they observed her with a willful, incisive intelligence that was beyond the bearing of mere mortal men. The last man she would want to face as an adversary. The only man she would ever love. When she stared into those haunting eyes, the world narrowed. Nothing else existed.
There was only this knight, all in gray.
His jaw was strong, square. The small mouth, etched with sensual curves, was seductive. It could lure her to forget her best intentions and surrender to him, asking naught in return. A black curl carelessly fell over the high forehead, drawing her to reach out and push it back.
He kissed the side of her nose. Kissing those damned freckles! For a long moment his hands tightened about her arms and he laid his cheek against hers. Then, he set her away from him. Her blood chilled.
Reaching up, he lifted the hood over his hair, and waited as his squire stood on the stool to place the mighty helm on his head. Damian looked to the side, to her. Their eyes locked and held. Images possessed her, singed her with an ancient fire as she touched him…of her hands on the bare flesh of his muscular chest, how it felt to be kissed by this powerful knight.
In a blink they were replaced by a horrible vision, of a sword piercing his body, the plate not holding. Of his blood soaking the gray shirt. It trickling from his mouth as his life force faded from the pale eyes.
“No!”
Terrified, she reeled backward, her scream tearing through her mind.
Jerking up to sit, she looked around the darkened room, unable to recall where she was or how she got there. It took her several heartbeats before remembering she had passed out by the midden. Somehow, she was back in the room inside Glenrogha.
’Twas not so much a faint, she had been sucked into the void of farseeing. She shivered at traces of the vision―the foretelling―still so real. The fear palpable, lingering. What would be if she did not stop Damian. The only thing keeping the velvet blackness of the night at bay was the flickering light of the candle on the table at bedside.
Her eyes cast about in the darkness, seeking him. He was not in the chamber. There was a chill to the room, an emptiness.
She sat, her heart thudding painfully. So in the clutches of The Kenning, she almost jumped from the bed to run after him, then she realized it was dark outside. Night. There was still time to stop him.
“Your man be gone. I sent him away. Like all males, they be useless when a woman faints. Give them a fire-breathing beastie to slay and they are calm, level-headed, and full of purpose. Present them with a lass who has swooned and they go to pieces, and only get in the way.” Auld Bessa stepped from the shadows, gripping a pitcher. She poured a liquid into a small bowl, and then soaked a cloth in it. “This will awaken you. Put the rag to your face whilst I mix you a tansy to strengthen your blood for the babe. You must eat better. The bairn grows. You must give him the nourishment he needs.”
“I wouldst eat more if he did no’ make me so bloody sick,” she grumbled.
“That trial shall pass as you two come to pact. Male babes always cause the strongest problems, like they battle their maither for dominance from the instant they come into being.”
Bessa hummed a singsong melody while stirring the herbs in the cup of water. “The more violent the morning sickness, the more braw a warrior he shall be. You breed with a son that will one day be a legend.”
Provided she stopped his father from destroying them all. A chill ran down Aithinne’s spine. “Bessa, can you craft the forgetting potion as Oona does?”
Bessa snorted a laugh. “So, that be what you plied on that bonnie man? Oona thinks highly of her spells to reinforce the potion. Mayhap too high. With repeated doses it works―for a time. Life has a way of flanking such craftings, so they be risky at best. Odd things set loose fragments; the more pieces that haunt him, the more he will struggle to recall. One with Fae blood—such as this man carries—will see him remember, lass. No’ everything, but one day it will come flooding back to him. Some of it will no’ seem real, merely shards of dreams. Others will suddenly become very sharp in his thoughts. You think he shan’t remember when he stares down upon his babe?”
“But Oona said it would keep him from recalling.” Aithinne clutched at straws, still hoping, but with fading conviction.
Bessa gave her an indulgent smile. “As long as he was never around you again, aye, there was naught to summon forth those splinters of remembrances. Even when things became clear, he would believe it only a dream. But now you are before him. And show little resistance in keeping him out of your bed. You took him away, did you no’? Had those nodcock brothers of yours and their pet Einar steal him away from Glenrogha on May Day? You only returned him when Challon’s men grew too close to finding him in your bed at Lyonglen. You took him, used that braw warrior’s body to get you with child. Worse, you do no’ hold too much shame over that―only that you might now be found out. You be a bold sinful lass, Aithinne Ogilvie. You played a game of chance with the Auld Ones. Now, you get more than you bargained for.”
“Oh, do hush. Oft Oona and you love to poke me with a stick for my rash actions. Oona assured me the plan would work. I trusted her.”
“Well, she told you the truth—but you heard what you wanted to hear. The plan did work. You got the child you sought. Oona followed the path of what was meant to be. Sometimes, the trail twists and turns, and be no’ precisely as we would wish.”
“Bah, more riddles. I shall deal with the brew working or no’ concerning my Beltaine antics later. I sought the forgetting potion for another purpose—the quickest way to handle the problem of the coming morn. Evelynour spake―”
“Evelynour? When? She came here?” Bessa frowned, deeply shaken. “Why was I unaware of this? I was―well, never mind, I grow old. My powers wane, and be less strong as they once were. It takes more strength to use The Kenning. Leaves me weaker all the time. Things that came so easily once now require more effort. I fear my days upon this earth be numbered in the few.”
“Oh, Bessa,” Aithinne felt so distressed, seeing how flustered Bessa was by not sensing Evelynour’s coming.
“Forget my failings. Tell me about seeing Evelynour.”
“She came to me by the midden with a dark augury. She spake Challon would take the field of honor this coming morn to avenge his lady. Only, RavenHawke would seek to be her champion in his stead. He knows Tamlyn loves Julian so much, that he will not risk the chance of Challon being taken from her. She spake that Damian would…die if he did this, though he would kill Pendegast before he drew his last breath.” A sob welled up in Aithinne’s chest. “She warned if that comes to pass King Edward would take grievous offense. As the insult be done to Challon, not Damian. The English would not accept the Trial by Combat as God’s will. With fire and sword, he would come and destroy both glens.”
Bessa backed up in shock, her hand flying to the side and knocking the pitcher over. “Och, what an old clumsy fool I be.”
She sat on the bed’s side and with an aging hand cupped Aithinne’s cheek. It hurt Aithinne to recognize how ancient Bessa was. All three of the healers’ days on this earth were numbered. She was not sure what the Shanes and the Ogilvies would do with their passing. They were the heart of both clans, the life force of their glens.
“Can you recall Evelynour’s words?”
“She warned RavenHawke must not fight in Challon’s stead. That if Challon fights for Tamlyn, King Edward will accept the judgment as their God’s will. I surmise Challon has the right to take Pendegast’s life in Trial by Combat. Damian does not, though the lackwit thinks he does. He wants to save Challon the pain in his mind at fighting again. Wants to give Tamlyn the man she loves if Pendegast wins.”
“You could tell him about the child,” Bessa suggested.
Aithinne’s body jerked from the suppressed sob. “Nay. He believes I lie about marrying Gilchrest―”
“Smart man, eh? You did lie, lass.”
“The lads said he was asking questions of people, getting different tales about what happened. Thus, he might no’ believe me about the child, either. And even if he does, he will hate me. He was played false before―”
“Moffet? The pretty lad, squire to Challon?” Bessa asked, though her tone said she already knew the answer.
She nodded. “He be bitter. What if he refuses to listen to me and fights anyway? Might no’ the warring questions I gift him with be the cause of him failing to focus upon the fight? What I tell him could slow his hand. I could be killing him…” She buried her face in her hands, and against her bent knees, and cried. Finally, she looked up through tearful eyes. “What am I to do, Bessa?”
“The strongest magic any woman wields over a man be her body. You have the power to reach your braw warrior, bend him to your will―all without the need of any dark brew.”
Aithinne took the cup Bessa handed her. “Mayhap, if he cared. But he loves Tamlyn, not me.”
“Och child, you do seem to find trouble at every turn. You have lived in Tamlyn’s shadow for too long, compared yourself to her, and in your mind see yourself as lacking. No man could love you when he has seen her, eh? Well, that be true in Challon’s case. It does not mean ’tis the same with his cousin. St. Giles be much in the image of Challon. Did you ever stop to think, in his mind he has compared himself to the mighty Dragon all these many years, and deemed himself no’ as good, too? Gives you a common ground to find pax, lass. You be Tamlyn’s equal, in all ways. Stop letting yourself feel you are less. You want this man―fight for him. Brand him with your special fire.”
♦◊♦
Brand him with your special fire. Could she?
The words echoed within her as she watched Damian slashing away at the practice dummy. She had found him at the lists, working in the torchlight. Slash-slash-slash. Spin, and the sword sang through the air as he brought it down in an arc. Again and again. Killing Pendegast a dozen times over. A hundred.
Watching him scared her. He wore no sark, no vest. His muscular chest glistened with the sheen of sweat. She swallowed hard at the sheer perfection of his body. A warrior readying for battle. He saw nothing, felt nothing, but his single-minded focus of preparing for Trial by Combat.
Damian did not sense her presence. He blocked her from his mind. His heart. She was nothing to him but a body in the dark, one that was formed in the image of the woman he loved. On the morrow he would fight for Tamlyn. He would die. He would die for Tamlyn. Even if he knew that his life would be forfeit, Aithinne comprehended he would still fight. When he looked at her, Aithinne knew he saw naught but a pale substitute.
The enormity overwhelmed her. How could she contest this?
She stood in the deep shadows, watching. Crying silent tears. He was beautiful, and already so much a part of her. Torches were set in a circle in the list proper, permitting him to continue practicing against the quintain. Everyone else had already had supper and gone to seek their rest. Not St. Giles. The night was chilly, her breath vaporizing as she waited. Shivering, she had stayed here as along as she could. Much longer and she would risk getting chilblains.
“Damian,” she called to him, but was not surprised when he continued with the hacking and slashing at the wooden dummy. “Damian! Och, bloody man!” He did not hear her, refused to hear her.
Risking that he would not strike her down before he reined in his killer’s focus, she approached him. Reaching out, she put a hand on his bare arm. He reared back, the sword raised. He stared at her so coldly, devoid of any caring, almost turning her blood to ice. The long lashes blinked as he took in that only she stood there. An odd flicker of emotion flashed in the pale eyes, but he quickly hid it behind a shutter of iron within his mind. What had he thought? She was not sure. Sometimes, when you needed it the most, the voices of The Kenning were so silent. She feared for an instant he believed her Tamlyn. With the hood of the mantle pulled up around her face and in the shadows, it would be easy to assume such.
Until he looked upon her face and saw the freckles, stared into her hazel eyes instead of Tamlyn’s amber ones. Trying to be brave, she pretended that truth did not have the power to crush her tender soul. Pretended. Failed. She almost closed her eyes against the tears that tried to come. Instead, she recalled her purpose this night was to save him, save both glens from a horror unimaginable. Her feelings mattered little when so much was at stake.
“The hour grows late. You should come in. ’Tis chilly, my lord,” she said softly.
His jaw flexed in stubbornness before he lowered the sword. “I am not ready to seek my rest.” Finally pushing back his killer instinct, his face gentled. “How do you feel? You worried me passing out as you did. Auld Bessa shooed me from the room. The crone spake I was as useful as a boil on her behind.”
“Bessa has a colorful way of speaking.” She gave him a half-smile. “I am fine. I merely be tired from too many upsets of late.”
He returned a fleeting grin. “Colorful? Aye, ’tis putting it mildly. She threatened to sprinkle some powder in my ale that wouldst make my manhood shrivel if I did not get from underfoot.”
“Come inside.” She held out his gray woolen mantle for him. “The night grows cool. The fog blankets the land. The damp can make you sicken.”
He shook his head, then restlessly changed the grip on the sword’s hilt, half-ignoring her. “I wouldst rather continue to work off my poison. You should go inside though. I wouldst not see you become unwell.”
Her stubbornness surfaced. “I stand here as long as you stay.”
“Tam―” his facial muscles flinched as he caught the slip.
She flinched as if he slapped her. A knife to her heart. “No, Damian, I am Aithinne, no’ Tamlyn, though I am sure you would wish I were my cousin.”
“I just have Tamlyn on my mind at the moment, Aithinne. I wouldst never mistake you for each other. I see only the differences, not the likeness,” he assured.
His words twisted the knife in her heart. She managed a tight laugh. “Oh, of that I have little doubt. You plan to fight as Tamlyn’s champion on the morrow. Do you no’?”
He nodded, then looked away from her, unable to maintain her probing stare.
“Amadán,” she growled.
His head snapped up, glaring at her. “I am no fool. It is what must be. Julian has been sickened in spirit since the death of his brother Christian. It was…not an easy death and it haunts him. Since wedding Tamlyn he is coming alive again. Even so, I am not sure he is truly prepared to take up the sword to kill again. A heartbeat’s hesitation could cost him his life. And also Berwick prays upon his…”
She nodded, when he could not go on. “Word of the sacking came, spread through the Highlands like wildfire. ’Tis spake Edward went through the town with fire and sword.”
He nodded. “Sounds so simple―with fire and sword. You have no idea. Three days, Aithinne, three days and nights. It never stopped. The killing. The fires. The screams. The smells. A town dying in this manner is a very ugly thing.” He stared at the sword’s blade as if seeing blood upon the surface. “Edward’s crushing of Wales had been bad enough. Only Berwick was nothing but a demonstration of the Plantagenet’s might. His madness. We were encamped at Hutton. At dawn of the first morn, Edward himself rode to the gates of the town. He called for their immediate surrender. The foolish…arrogant…stupid Scots called out—dared him to do his worst. He did. His very worst, Aithinne. You cannot imagine the…horror. Men, women…children…died―a thousand score. So many they needed burying in mass pits. Even then, he would not give leave. Most still rot, now several sennights past―Edward’s decree. He commanded the putrid corpses shouldst remain where they fell—a warning to the Scots.”
Bile rose in her stomach. ’Tis what would happen to Glen Shane and Glen Eallach if she failed to stop him from fighting in Challon’s place. “Tamlyn does no’ need a champion, my lord. She has a husband. Through Trial by Combat he shall be made invincible because he be the instrument of your God’s justice. You shall no’ have that shield.”
“Enough, Aithinne. I shall discuss this no more.” His words were soft, but given in finality.
“Damn you. All of life must be decided by you, no matter who else be affected. You fight because you love Tamlyn. You break your Commandments. Thou shall not covet another’s wife―one of your ten laws? You fight because you hold another man’s lady in your heart, then your God will turn his back on you. You will die. Because you fight with stained honor, this valley and the valley beyond shall bear your punishment, the wrath of your king for your affront.”
He shook his head. “You are not well, Aithinne. Please return to your bed, rest. Shortly the dawn will come, and this matter will be settled, finished. Then, we can talk of the future―”
“There will be no future. Your arrogance shall summon vengeance from Longshanks. With fire and sword, my lord—fire and sword. What happened at Berwick will be visited upon Glen Shane and Glen Eallach. Your precious Tamlyn will die, Raven and Rowanne…even I shall die, though that shall matter little to you.” Tears streamed down her face to where she could barely think, let alone speak. “You condemn us all because of your love. A love that is wrong.”
“Hush, you beset yourself. ’Tis nonsense you speak, Aithinne.” He tried to put an arm around her. “Come, I shall see you to your room. You are unwell.”
She ducked away from his grasp and rounded on him. “Of course, I am unwell, you yapping lackwit! You do no’ listen. You will not listen. You will die―”
He grabbed her pulling her body against his chest, holding her whilst sobs wracked her. The strong, unyielding arms held her firm, despite her struggling against him. Then, she did not want to struggle. She wanted him to hold her through this night.
Stay with her when the dawn came.