The tables were heavily-laden with succulent meats—capon, wild boar, venison, and hare seasoned with spices—accompanied by freely flowing casks of mead and French wine. Having not eaten since the day before, his neglected stomach sounded a loud protest.
He finally saw Davina standing before the high table making a curtsy, first to the king, and then to Prince Henry, before her attention was directed to the man at the king’s right hand. Was this her betrothed? Domnall regarded him with instant antipathy. He was swarthy with black hair and black eyes, and angular features that reminded Domnall of a raven—a scavenger seeking an heiress.
Watching Davina, Domnall was considering his next move when her face went deathly pale. Her eyes grew wide as if stricken with terror as she faced a dark stranger seated at the king’s table. For a moment she stood as if cast in stone, but then she suddenly turned her back and fled the great hall!
Christ’s bloodl! What was this?
Though he’d intended not to draw attention to himself, Domnall’s feet were instantly in motion. He bolted after her, eventually catching up to her in the gallery.
“Davina! Halt ye! ’Tis me, Domnall,” he called out to her, his voice echoing against the walls of stone.
She spun around to face him, with a blank stare as if she didn’t even know him, but then her eyes flickered with recognition. “Domnall?”
He opened his arms and took a slow step toward her.
Davina flung herself against him with a strangled sound, and then burst into hysterical sobs. He was holding her thusly when the king’s guard came upon them.
“What is this?” the captain demanded. “Release her at once.”
“Nae!” Davina cried out. “I willna go back!”
“You shall by order of the king,” the guard threatened.
Shielding her with his own body, Domnall stepped forward and drew his sword. “Ye will go through me first.”
“Through you?” The guard smirked with a scrape of steel. “As you wish.”
“Nae!” Davina screamed and threw herself between them.
Domnall found himself surrounded by the remaining knights. His heart hammered in anticipation, but fighting would be futile. There were too many. Shoulders slumping in surrender, he sheathed his blade.
“You will return to the great hall,” the captain commanded Davina, “and explain yourself to the king.”
“He is a murderer!” Davina choked out.
“A murderer?” the captain eyed Domnall narrowly and then nodded to his men. “Take him to the pillory.”
“Nae! Nae!” Davina shook her head wildly as two men clamped Domnall’s hands behind his back. “’Tis the wrong man! I speak of Fitz Ranulf!”
“What are ye saying?” Domnall asked.
“Fitz Ranulf! He is the one who came to Crailing. ’Tis he who killed my family.”
“Are ye verra sure of this, Davina?” Domnall asked his gaze probing hers. She was distraught without doubt. He could ill afford to err. “’Tis a grave accusation ye make.”
“’Tis true!” she cried. “I am certain of it!”
“Take us both to the king,” Domnall demanded. “Her charge must be heard.”
“What has this to do with you?” the captain asked, eyeing them both with uncertainty.
“I can bear testament to this crime,” Domnall answered.
“You were a witness?”
“Nay, but I was there at Crailing when the bodies were discovered.”
The captain considered him for a moment and then nodded. “Very well. You will both make a full account to the king.”
*
After the guests dispersed amidst whispers of scandal, Davina, Domnall, and Ioan Fitz Ranulf, stood before the king and his closest advisors in his chamber.
“She raves!” Fitz Ranulf cried, arms in the air. “You give me a madwoman to wife!”
“On the contrary, I know this young woman to be of sound mind,” Prince Henry declared in Davina’s defense. “She has served my family for a number of years, but perhaps she is confused. She was but a young child, after all.”
“There is nae mistake,” Davina insisted as Fitz Ranulf eyed her with a deadly stare. “I remember his face, his eyes, his voice. This man came to my home and tried to…to… rape me,” she blurted the last word in a whisper. She shut her eyes in an effort to regain the fragile threads of her composure.
“Tried?” the king’s brows rose. “So the deed was not done?”
“Nae.” Davina cleared her throat and continued, “After I got away from him, he locked me in the stable and set it afire. I barely escaped with my life. But the others did nae escape. They were brutally slaughtered.”
“Lies!” Fitz Ranulf took to his feet spewing spittle. “I will not stand for this!”
“Then I suggest you sit,” the king commanded softly.
“I am unjustly accused!” Fitz Ranulf continued to rant. “There will be dire consequences for this!”
“Indeed?” The king steepled his fingers and studied both the accuser and the accused. After a time, he looked back to Davina. “Was anyone else present at Crailing? Can anyone besides you identify the wrongdoer?”
“Nae, Majesty,” Davina answered softly. “Everyone else is dead.”
“I was there,” Domnall declared. Until now, he’d held his peace, but it was already clear that the hearing was not leaning in Davina’s favor. “As was my father, William Fitz Duncan.”
The king inclined his head. “I do recall him speaking of this unhappy event, but did you see the murders?”
“Nae,” Domnall said. “I saw only the headless bodies of Sir Rémin and his son.”
Davina gasped.
“I’m sorry, lass,” Domnall murmured. He hated that he’d revealed the gruesome details. Until now, she’d been spared the worst of it.
“’Tis not enough to accuse a man,” the king declared, his tone remaining mild and his face impassive. “The law is clear on this point. No man may be charged with murder without reliable witnesses.” He glanced at Davina. “And a child of nine years is hardly reliable.”
Davina was once more pallid.
Domnall’s fist clenched under the table. Was the king about to let the murderer go? Perhaps it’s what he’d intended all along, and this hearing was naught but a sham. He could not let this happen! He could not allow Davina to suffer this injustice!
The king stood. “Given the lack of evidence against this man, I have no choice but to—”
“Let God be the judge,” Domnall blurted before the king could finish.
The council gaped.
“By Yer Majesty’s leave,” Domnall quickly amended. “Davina of Crailing deserves justice for her loss. ’Tis within her right to seek a trial by wager.”
The king pierced Domnall with a lethal stare. It was clear he had no liking of Domnall’s interference, or his suggestion. “Do you permit this man to speak for you?” he asked Davina.
“I do,” she replied, directing Domnall a questioning look.
The king’s brows pulled into a scowl. He then looked to Fitz Ranulf. “Do you also agree to this, Sir Ioan Fitz Ranulf?”
Fitz Ranulf’s thin mouth stretched into a smug smile. “I do, indeed.”
“So be it.” The king released a long, tired sigh. “The trial by wager will proceed a sennight hence at noontide. If this man’s innocence is proven, as I have little doubt it will, the wedding will proceed the day following.”
“What if he is proven guilty, Majesty?” Davina asked.
“You will be freed from this obligation,” the king replied, leaving no doubt that her fate still remained in his hands. “These two men shall make preparation to come together at the lists of Carlisle a sennight hence,” the king pronounced. “May God’s will and His justice be done.”
*
“Pray, Yer Highness,” Davina asked the prince as they departed the council chamber, “may I speak privily with Domnall?”
“You may walk toge
ther in the garden,” Prince Henry replied, “but stay you well within sight.”
“Thank ye, Highness,” she replied with a curtsy. “Come, Domnall, let us walk to the fountain.”
Followed at a discrete distance by two to the prince’s men-at-arms, Davina and Domnall strolled side-by-side to the castle gardens.
It had been many years since Davina had been to this place but it was little changed. Graveled walks as straight as arrows divided the walled courtyard into neat, even, rectangular plots of green. Along the periphery were vine-covered pergolas bearing grapes, and wooden trellises exploding with colorful blooms that perfumed the air. The centerpiece, however, was a fountain of carved stone depicting the weeping Virgin, whose tears fell into the pool of water at her feet. Surrounding the pool were cleverly crafted seats of turf.
Out of earshot but still within sight of the guards, Davina spread her skirts and sat. “Where have ye been all this time?” Davina voiced the question that was nearly bursting from her lips from the moment she saw him.
“I went to Skipton,” Domnall said. “I’d hoped to make a bargain with Fitz Duncan that would forestall this marriage.”
Davina’s heart fluttered. “Ye did? I thought ye had deserted me.”
His warm hand rested gently on hers. “Did I nae swear ne’er to forsake ye?”
“Does that mean ye succeeded in yer quest at Skipton?”
“In part,” he answered. “Fitz Duncan offered a compromise. He proposed offering Doncaster in place of Crailing. ’Tis one of Prince Henry’s holdings, but located deep into English territory. ’Tis highly probable he will lose it anyway, in time, whichever way the war ends. I believed the prince might consider the idea, but it seems I arrived too late to present it.”
“Nae,” she said with a shaky breath. “Ye arrived just in time. But I dinna understand this ‘trial by wager’.”
“’Tis an accepted Norman custom for settling disputes,” Domnall answered. His reply seemed purposely vague.
“Ye have told me nothing,” she accused. “How does this proceed?”
Domnall sighed. “The accuser and the accused do battle in the hope that God himself will judge the guilty.”
Her eyes widened. “Ye will fight Fitz Ranulf? Why would ye do this? I dinna understand why ye would risk the king’s wrath, let alone yer own life.”
“’Twas the only way,” he said with a shrug. “Ye ken as well as I that the king was about to dismiss the charges.”
“But ye could be killed!” she cried, jumping to her feet. “Surely he is more experienced in battle than ye! I willna have ye hazard yer life over this!”
“Ye would prefer to be his bride?” Domnall asked.
“Nae! Ne’er that!” she cried. “I would risk eternal damnation and take my own life first.”
“Nae, Davina!” He caught hold of her arm. “’Tis already settled. I offered the challenge in yer name and he accepted. I will be yer champion, and my sword will deliver the justice ye seek.” He drew her closer until she stood between his knees.
“And if ye lose?” she whispered.
“I willna let that happen,” he answered softly.
“Ye canna make me such a promise,” she replied. “’Tis nae under yer control!”
“Aye,” he agreed. “’Tis in God’s hands now. And I trust His justice far more than that of the king. God will judge this matter,” Domnall said. “And He will guide my sword. And after this matter with Fitz Ranulf is finished, I will petition the king for yer hand.”
His words made her heart skip. “Ye mean that?”
“I do. I willna let another have ye, Davina. Ye were meant for me.”
Davina longed for him to take her into his arms, but they were not alone. The king’s men stood nearby watching them.
“Has Fitz Duncan changed his mind, then?” she asked. “Will he make ye his heir?”
“Nae,” Domnall said. “Nevertheless, I will have what is mine.”
“How so if he denies ye?” she asked.
“Fitz Duncan will nae live forever,’ he replied. “Once he is gone, I will fight for my máthair’s lands. I swore to Fitz Duncan ne’er to challenge his son, William, for Cumberland, but I made no such vow regarding Moray. And as soon as I reclaim my inheritance, ye will be my bride.”
Her heart sank. “But that could be years away.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “But we are yet young. Can ye nae wait for me? Ye promised me once that ye would.”
“I would wait for ye, Domnall Mac William, as long as it takes.”
Their eyes met and held. The longing for his kiss was so great it made her bones ache.
“Bluidy guards be damned,” he muttered, and drew her into a deep and passionate kiss that stole the very breath from her body.
Chapter Thirteen
Scottish Borderlands
Domnall left Carlisle early the next morning. There were preparations to make that he could not do alone, and there was only one man he trusted to help him. It was a long, exhausting ride, but his fatigue lifted at the sight of his best friend. Duff of Kildun was propped against a boulder sharpening his dirk while the other four men stood watch on the hillside.
Domnall flung himself from his spent horse with a smirk. “Did ye miss me?”
“Nae enough to kiss ye,” Duff quipped. “Where the de’il have ye been the past fortnight? Haddington is but a day’s ride on a good horse.” He eyed Domnall’s lathered courser askance. “Then again…”
“He’s the best horse in this patrol and ye well ken it,” Domnall said. “To answer yer question, I took longer than expected because I was also required to carry an answer to the king’s missive. After that, I had a personal mission to complete in Skipton.”
“Skipton, eh?” Duff’s ginger brows furrowed. “And how is the Butcher of Clitheroe these days?”
“My sire appears to be in robust health, thank ye for asking,” Domnall replied dryly.
“What sent ye to him?” Duff asked.
Domnall paused, wondering how much to confide in his friend. Duff was loud, obnoxious and undisciplined at times, but he was also the greatest warrior of the patrol, and the man Domnall most trusted. “Do ye recall a certain lass named Davina?” he asked.
Duff squinted as if searching his memory. “From Crailing? I recall that place far too well.” He shook his shaggy, red head. “’Twas some bad business there.”
“Aye,” Domnall said. “But it gets far worse.”
Duff’s gaze narrowed. “How?”
“’Tis a long story, but the short of it is the king has betrothed her to the man she believes committed the crime.”
“Who?” Duff demanded.
“Ioan Fitz Ranulf, the bastard son of Ranulf De Gernon.”
“Comes as nae surprise that De Gernon would be behind it all. Treacherous viper that he is. I pity the lass for having to breed with that bloodline.”
“There will be nae marriage,” Domnall declared.
“If ’tis the king’s will, how do ye intend to prevent it?” Duff asked.
“I intend to kill him,” Domnall replied.
Duff’s brows shot up. “The king? ’Tis a bold move, indeed.”
“Are ye truly so daft or do ye intentionally misunderstand?” Domnall asked.
Duff grinned. “I was merely indulging a fantasy. As to yer plot to dispose of the viper’s spawn, would ye be in need of assistance?”
“As a matter of fact, I am in need of a squire,” Domnall said.
“A squire?” Duff frowned. “I’ll watch yer back but I willna wipe yer arse.”
“Yer doing it again,” Domnall accused.
“Doing what?” Duff asked innocently.
“Misunderstanding me! Davina charged Fitz Ranulf of the murder of her family and I petitioned the king for a trial by wager to prove his guilt. We are to meet in combat in a sennight. I need a second man for the contest, Duff.”
“Ah!” Duff eye’s gleamed. “That kind of squiring I can do.
” For the first time, his expression sobered. “He’s a knight?”
“Aye,” Domnall said. “Of some considerable repute.”
“Then ye’d best sharpened yer wits as well as yer sword.” He sheathed his dirk and clapped his giant hand on Domnall’s shoulder. “Come, lad. We have much work and little time.”
*
“Fitz Ranulf is a Norman knight,” Duff said. “As such, he will have utter confidence in his sword. Ye, however, must begin and end with yer ax.”
“Ye would have me face his sword with an ax? Ye dinna have confidence in my swordsmanship?” Domnall asked in dismay.
Axes were used for hacking and slashing the enemy. There was neither elegance nor great precision needed, whereas a sword required great skill and accuracy.
“My advice has naught to do with yer swordsmanship,” Duff said. “’Tis about taking him by surprise. Normans favor the sword. They think the ax is crude and barbaric and beneath them. They dinna ken how to use it.”
“But the sword has a longer reach,” Domnall argued. “And every swing of an ax opens the wielder up to a counterstrike.”
Duff grinned. “Nae if I teach ye how to use it. It is, indeed, a simple and crude weapon, but there is also an art to the battle ax that few men bother to study. There is a disadvantage in facing a sword with only an ax, but the targe is the great equalizer. Ye can get in close, so close the sword is hampered. Learn well how to wield these together, and he will ne’er get the chance to use his sword.”
The techniques Duff taught him, particularly how to use the ax as a hook to disarm or even disable the opponent, were, indeed, simple and took little time to learn, but speed and coordination would be elemental to his success. Aided by Duff, Niall, and the others, Domnall passed every waking moment preparing—practicing with ax and shield until he received a mock death blow, or he collapsed from sheer exhaustion. The days passed far too quickly. Though he would have wished for more time, he was as prepared as he was ever going to be for the forthcoming contest with Fitz Ranulf.
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