MAKING PLANS
“Brother? Come outside for a game of throw-and-catch?”
Conn glanced up, his thoughts interrupted by Alf's plaintive inquiry. He was sitting at a window in the gallery, looking over the green land. He looked at Alf distantly.
“Sorry, Brother. I'd rather not.”
Alf looked distressed. “You've been like this for weeks, Brother!” he protested. “I know...” he trailed off, unwilling to mention Leona for fear of upsetting his brother again.
“I know you know,” Conn said gently. He also knew that Alf didn't understand what he felt like. He appreciated his younger brother's attempts to cheer him, but they were doomed not to work, as he was not sad, not really. He simply felt nothing. His feelings were a varied mass of grays, like the distant clouds on the hillside. He felt neither happy nor miserable; just dead inside.
“Amice said she wanted to play too,” Alf supplied, smiling. “You should come – she always makes us smile.”
Conn smiled pallidly. He loved his little cousin Amice, but even she was unlikely to cheer him up today. “I'll stay,” he still said.
“Very well.” Alf sounded sad. “I'll see you at dinner. I'll tell you about it then.”
“Do that,” Conn said gently. He leaned back and closed his eyes, waiting until he could no longer hear his brother's footsteps. Then he opened them again. He sighed and put down the carving he had been making; a swallow, carved small and forming part of a ring. It had been meant for Leona.
Leona isn't here anymore.
The thought drained the color from his world, leaving it gray and bland. All his life, Leona had been at Dunkeld. They had grown up together.
He hated being here without her. It was torture, for everything held so many memories of her. There was the wall where they’d climbed as children; there the solar where she’d sat at the spinet in the evenings, her singing stroking his soul. There the window where she’d sometimes stood when they trained. He had almost got himself killed, looking up at her merry blue eyes during a bout at sword-craft.
She is every brick of this castle, every breath I take.
It was torture. He could not stop thinking about her, for he was ever reminded. In any case, it was habit to think of her when waking, when retiring to bed. He thought of her often and each thought was a slap. A reminder that she was not here.
She will probably like France.
It was some comfort, if it held the terror that she might like it and stay also.
He had asked his Uncle Broderick about France. He had been there once, long ago, on a trading venture; taking brandy and purchasing swords at the market in Torron. He had said it was a place of refinement; a place where things like swords and armor were forged with care and an eye for the decorative, where fine things flowed from Bruges and Toledo, from Cologne and Ghent and Milan. The trade of the world seemed to find its way there, to the harbor at Calais and beyond, and people lived a refined life.
He smiled. He imagined her at a castle, draped in lace from Bruges and satin from Arabia and curtseying elegantly to kings and lords.
She would like that.
He felt a hand clench round his heart as a new worry assailed him. What if she met someone while she was there; wed someone else? He shook his head.
Don't be daft, Conn. If she does, she is free to choose that. You don't have any right to say her nay in this. But I choose her. I always would. I do.
Like it was for Leona, the obligation to wed was not binding. He had gone with his father to castles and mingled with many folk, both here at Dunkeld and far afield. He had met lords and ladies and joined the dance with lasses his own age, high-born and eligible. However, he had never seen any to equal Leona.
She has my heart.
He shook his head. He felt foolish for it, almost as if he should be able to forget; as if loving this deeply was a flaw, not a strength. Nevertheless, he knew that he would continue to do so.
He lifted himself out of the chair, wincing as he felt how bloodless his left foot was, a cramp shooting up from it as the blood flow returned. He stretched and shook his head to clear it, going out again.
If anyone could help me make sense of this, it's Father.
He headed downstairs to the armory, where he suspected his father might be found.
“...And so we should send for more pine logs,” his father's low, serious voice was saying gravely. “We need to make spears from them for the front-most ranks.”
“Aye, sir.” Dougal, the solidly-built armorer, agreed seriously.
Conn stepped back in the doorway, knowing his father would likely be busy for hours and not welcome disturbance. His father's brown gaze saw him and shifted to his face, eyes gentle.
“Hold on, son,” he said kindly. “So, Dougal, you think that's a good way to go forward?”
“I do indeed, I do.” The small, compact armorer agreed. “We'll get that wood in from the north lands, sir.”
“Good, Dougal,” said Blaine, looking across the room at a rack of daggers, fresh-made. “And teach the men that new maneuver we discussed – I think it's helpful.”
“Very helpful, sir!” Dougal sounded enthused. “I'll do that.”
“Good,” Blaine said again. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you then, sir.” Dougal nodded. “I'll send off for those logs directly...”
Blaine left as he went to the bench in the corner, chalk in hand, working out how many new logs they would need to order, and the cost thereof. He headed out into the light of the courtyard where Conn stood, waiting. “You busy, son?” he asked.
“No, Father,” Conn said, hands open as if to indicate he had nothing to hand to do.
“Well, then,” Blaine smiled. “How about a ride, eh?”
“We could,” Conn said slowly. “But if you...” he trailed off. His father could only mean that he intended to exercise the new destriers. He swallowed, nervously. The thought of actually riding one of those immense, uncompromising new animals was intimidating. Very.
“I'd thought we could take them down round the hillside pass,” Blaine said lightly. “It's a nice path, easy, with little to spook them. Sounds sensible?”
“Sounds very sensible,” Conn said wretchedly. He hated the idea. However, he did want to talk to his father and if there was no other way than to go riding one of those terrifying new horses, he supposed he could do it. It would take only an hour, after all.
“Right then,” Blaine said with a smile. “We'll go and tack them up, eh?”
Tacking them up proved easy, and by the time he had finished heaving the heavy saddle onto his mount's back, Conn was already feeling better about them. The two horses might be huge, but they were easygoing temperaments, it seemed. They had been extremely well-taught.
“But only in French,” his father commented, shaking his head and laughing wryly. “They're cannier than I am! I only speak one language. These blighters speak two.”
“Two?”
“French and English, I believe,” Blaine said sadly. “No one thought to teach them the language of the Gael.”
They both laughed. They spoke Gaelic and some lowland Scots, enough to get by if they had to go further south than Edinburgh for trade. However, English and French were unknown to them.
Leona taught me some. She taught me “hello” and “go.”
He patted the horse's neck. “Salut,” he said genially. The horse snorted.
“Looks like that's rude,” Blaine said, grinning. “Don't want to know what it meant.”
“Hello,” Conn said, bemused.
“Well, he doesn't seem to want to say hello,” Blaine chuckled. “Though it's not as if he's hopping mad. Just disconcerted, like.”
They finished tacking up the horses and led them out. Outside, the day had cooled slightly, the sky pale above the treeline, a breeze chilling the warmed air. They led the horses to the edge of the paddock.
“Come on,” Blaine said cheerily. “Let's go.”
He swung himself into the saddle, grunting as he took a seat on the hard leather, and then walked ahead so his son could reach the mounting block too.
Good that we have one.
The horses were too tall and broad to allow anything but a mount-up from a slight elevation. Conn, seated on the vast tan colored back, felt awe at the bunched muscle that tensed and flowed, conveying him forward behind his father with fluid grace.
“They're remarkable,” he said to his father's back. His father stopped, letting him catch up.
“They are,” he nodded. “Come from Flanders, I believe.”
“Oh?”
“Quite so,” Blaine replied. “Not too far from France.”
Conn nodded mutely. Flanders was, as far as he could remember, part of the Duchy of Burgundy, an offshoot of the French court. It explained why these particular destriers spoke French. Thinking of the place reminded him of his sadness. He blinked, looking ahead of them.
“Those hills look good and green now,” he commented, pointing at where there was wheat growing in the valley, far across from them.
“Aye, they do,” Blaine commented, surging ahead as Conn walked his horse forward at a trot. “They seem to suggest abundant harvests.”
“Good,” Conn nodded.
“Son, what is it?” Blaine asked. “You're not interested in crops. Not all the years I've known you. Knowledgeable enough to plant a sapling upside down, like me. Sommat's vexin' you.”
Conn breathed out sharply, not sure whether he was angry his father had seen through his attempt to maintain indifference or glad of it, since it meant they could finally talk.
“I'm not vexed,” he said tightly. “Just wonderin'.”
“Wondering what?” Blaine asked. Conn looked into his father's tranquil gaze and felt relaxed.
“About Leona and...and whether or not she'll wed there. You know...if she meets some lad and he sweeps her off her feet – and it could happen, let's be fair – she'll stay on.”
Blaine stared at him, and then inspected his knuckles, rubbing a bruise. When he looked up, he gave his son a level stare. “It could happen,” he agreed mildly. “But I doubt it. Have more faith in yersel', Daftie.”
Conn smiled at the nickname, meaning someone daft. He grinned. “I deserved that.”
“You did,” he observed mildly. “Now how can you think Leona's going to go all that way and forget about you? Would you forget her?”
“Of course not!” Conn spoke emphatically.
“Well, there you go.”
“But Leona's...so lovely and lighthearted and beautiful,” Conn said sadly. “Of course I'll remember her – I'd sooner forget my name! But me? Why'd she even think of me?”
“Come on, son,” Blaine grinned. “If you need me to tell you that, then you don't know anything. You're a wonderful person: kind, reliable, funny. You think. You care. You listen to people, even to your old da' when he's talking nonsense. And you have us all in stitches laughin' sometimes. Even when things seem bad.”
Conn looked at his father, eyes wide. He really thought that? He felt his heart flip with surprise. “Thank you, Da',” he said, voice hoarse with feeling.
“Don't thank me,” Blaine said gruffly. “You look so sad. I've a mind to cheer you up.”
“How?” he asked as his horse stepped over an uneven place, lurching him sideways and causing him to grip harder with his knees, feeling shaky.
Blaine grinned. “These fellers ain't involved,” he explained, grinning. “But I thought maybe you could get away.”
“Away?” Conn asked, feeling his stomach heave as his horse shied and then stepped back onto the track. “Where to?”
“Well, I...” Blaine sighed, running a hand through curling hair. “I suppose it's selfish. But I have a dispute I'd like settled. And if you want to go, well... it'd take five days down to Edinburgh and back. And you'd need to stay there. A while, mayhap.”
“I'd do it,” Conn said, feeling his spirits life. Edinburgh was where Leona headed first. Riding down there would mean he was closer to France – and her. It would also mean that he was not here. Out of Dunkeld, where everything he saw reminded him painfully of her absence. It was good.
Blaine smiled a little sadly. “You sure, son?”
Conn nodded emphatically. “I'm sure, Father. I'll leave as soon as you have whatever you need me to take there.”
“Well, that's easy,” Blaine chuckled. “The disputed bill's in my office. You could go tomorrow. But these things need planning. Mayhap next week?”
“Next week?” Conn felt dismayed. He would rather leave sooner. He thought he was going to go mad if he stayed here a moment longer. “Sooner, maybe?”
“Aye, sooner,” Blaine said slowly. “You could go two days hence? Is that good?”
Conn nodded vigorously. That was good.
“Well, then,” Blaine smiled. He looked sad, still, brown eyes worried. “Two days hence.”
“Yes, Father,” Conn nodded. “Thank you.”
“Oh, dinnae thank me,” Blaine said solidly. “I'm selfish, as I said. I shouldnae be sending you off on such a journey for my own ends, like.”
“Oh, Father,” Conn said fondly. “I know you.”
Blaine gave him a lopsided grin. “I really am using you, though,” he insisted. “If not, I'd have tae go myself. An' can you imagine me at court?” he whistled, and then laughed. “I'd offend the daylights outta everyone there in two seconds. Then they'd send me packing with less than I had when I arrived. No, son – you'll do well.”
Conn laughed. “I think you might manage to make them cross,” he conceded.
“Cross?” he exclaimed. “I'd be lucky not to get executed! All it takes is one of them to be high-and-mighty with me and I'd land myself in jail. And then what'd happen?”
Conn laughed. He knew his father – bluff, brash and entirely honest – wouldn't be anyone's sycophant. And if that was what was expected at a court – well, he probably would get slung out. The thought made him smile. He admired his father even as the same traits he admired exasperated him occasionally.
“Oh, Father,” he said again. “I do love you.”
Blaine blinked and if Conn hadn't thought it impossible, he would have thought he was hiding tears. Impossible, he thought.
“Son,” he said heavily, “I love you too. It's good you're happy.”
Conn smiled. He was happy – more than before. He had something to do. A mission ahead of him. And he would be leaving home, heading south, closer to Leona. And to France.
It was the best thing he could do at this moment.
As he rode, he couldn't help wondering where Leona was. He looked up at the sky, and felt his heart full of sadness as he recalled being in the hills with Leona as children.
I love you as big as the summer sky, he had told her. As big as mountains. Forever and ever.
She had said it back to him, her sweet voice, childish and lilting, repeating it, a promise.
As big as the summer sky. As big as mountains...
As the words came back to him, he closed his eyes, not wanting to let tears fall. He could not let himself remember that sweetness of childhood. Had to bury it deep inside, where it could not hurt him.