Untamed
Page 30
“If I die,” Dominic said, “see that Meg—”
“Nay! You’ll not die! I’ll protect your back myself. Thomas the Strong will—”
“Do nothing,” Dominic interrupted. “Nor will you. I will accuse Duncan of wife stealing. He will deny it. The issue will be settled in a manner no one may question—Ordeal by Combat.”
“God’s blood,” Simon said, appalled. “’Tis too chancy. A pebble could turn under your foot or he could get in a lucky blow or one of his men could—”
Dominic lifted his hand, cutting off his brother’s words.
“It is the only way war might be avoided,” Dominic said flatly.
For a time there was silence. Then Simon let out a hissing breath.
“Be that as it may,” Simon said, “if the Scots Hammer kills you, I will have his skull for a drinking cup and his blood for wine.”
A smile showed briefly on Dominic’s face. “I believe you would, brother. You are hellish quick with that sword.”
“And you are hellish strong.”
“So is the Scots Hammer.”
Simon didn’t disagree.
“Go find the priest before he is too drunk to shrive us,” Dominic said.
“He is found,” Simon said.
Dominic followed his brother’s black glance.
The priest was indeed found. He was standing next to Duncan, talking earnestly while stripping meat from a large joint. Obviously bored, Duncan listened to the priest without taking his eyes from the crowd.
When Simon and Dominic walked up, Duncan sensed instantly that he was at last going to be given the chance to test the mettle of the king’s Sword.
“So, you are finally going to join the games,” Duncan said with deep satisfaction.
“After a fashion,” Dominic said. He turned to the priest. “Are you sober enough to shrive us?”
Duncan became very still. His clear hazel eyes went from Dominic to Simon and back.
“Since when do knights need to be shriven before a simple game?” Duncan asked softly.
“Wife stealing is not a game,” Dominic said. His voice was as flat and cold as his eyes.
“Wife stealing?” Duncan repeated, shocked.
Duncan’s knights turned and looked at Dominic and Simon as though they had drawn their swords.
“Aye,” Dominic said grimly. “Wife stealing.”
“When?”
“A few days past, while we rode out to hunt.”
Puzzled, Duncan looked at Simon. Where once the possibility of friendship had gleamed in the other man’s eyes, there now was only a bleak promise of Hell.
“I don’t understand,” Duncan said quietly.
For several long moments Dominic studied the Scots Hammer. Reluctantly Dominic concluded that Duncan was probably telling the truth. Whatever had happened the day of the hunt hadn’t been Duncan’s doing.
Unfortunately, that changed nothing. The Scots Hammer was too strong a leader to go unchecked. His very life threatened the stability of Blackthorne Keep.
“When Meg’s palfrey tired of the chase,” Dominic said, pitching his voice to carry above the background noise, “I dropped back to ride with her. Soon we heard another hunting horn.”
Duncan began talking, only to be cut off by Dominic.
“Meg recognized the horn,” Dominic said. “It was yours, Duncan of Maxwell. Further, the dog we heard pursuing us was one of yours, full-throated and savage. It had been put on the trail of human game.”
“I did not do this thing,” Duncan said distinctly. “I would not run Meggie to ground like a felon to be hanged.”
Dominic smiled narrowly. “Indeed? I think you would, Duncan. I think you did. You know that Meg is the key to the loyalty of the people of Blackthorne Keep. Whoever holds her, holds the land.”
“Aye.” Duncan’s voice was grim. “On that we agree.”
“And because there is ‘affection’ between you two, you tried to steal the wife God and King Henry had given to me, thinking thereby to steal Blackthorne Keep as well.”
“Nay!”
“You may shout nay until the sheep are safely in their folds, but I won’t believe you. Nor will any man,” Dominic said flatly. “You have a choice, Duncan of Maxwell. You may leave this land, never to return—”
“Nay,” Duncan interrupted.
“—or you may face me in single combat here and now.”
A hush spread outward from the group of men across the meadow like ripples in a pond.
Meg, who had been talking with the midwife and Old Gwyn about Adela’s recovery, looked up. In the wake of the odd silence came excited words as news of the coming battle spread.
The Sword.
The Scots Hammer.
Ordeal by Combat.
Blood left Meg’s face. She swayed in the instants before she gathered her self-control.
“They cannot,” she whispered.
Yet Meg knew even as she spoke that Duncan and Dominic would fight.
And one would die.
She picked up her long emerald skirt and ran to the knot of knights. The people in the meadow made way for her, warned by the sweet golden cries of the bells she wore.
The knights were also warned. As one, men turned and looked at the Glendruid girl who was running toward them, her long hair lifting like flames on the wind.
Meg had eyes for only one of the men. She needed his closeness as she had never needed anything, even breath itself. Heedless of hauberk and sword and the cold scrape of steel over her skin, she flew to him.
“Small falcon,” Dominic whispered, catching her close.
It was all he could say.
The feeling in Meg’s eyes stunned Dominic. Uncaring of the watching people, he closed his arms around his wife and held her, sensing the wild emotions that shook her. When her body was finally still, he slowly released her.
“It will be all right,” Dominic said softly. “No matter who wins, you will be cared for. You are the key to Blackthorne Keep.”
Meg simply looked at her husband with tears of fear and anger shivering on the brink of overflowing.
“One will kill,” she whispered tightly. “One will die. How can that be all right?”
“Blackthorne Keep will survive.”
Meg closed her eyes. Two tears slid like liquid moonlight down her cheeks. She tried to speak but could not. Her eyes opened. With fingers that trembled slightly, she traced the hard lines of Dominic’s face as though memorizing him.
“The land always survives,” Meg said in a low voice. “It is only people who live and die. And love.”
Her hands went to her neck. With a quick movement she removed the golden chain holding her mother’s ancient cross. Meg kissed the cross and pressed it into Dominic’s gauntleted palm.
“God keep you,” she whispered.
Dominic took off his gauntlet and held the cross in his naked hand. The warmth of the metal was that of life itself, for the cross had lain between Meg’s breasts. He kissed the cross and slipped the chain around his own neck.
Unhappily Duncan watched the girl who had once been his betrothed and the man fate had made his enemy.
“Meggie, I would not have stolen you and forced adultery upon you,” Duncan said into the silence. “You believe that, don’t you?”
“Aye,” she said.
“Well, that is something.”
“Here is something else,” Meg said.
The tone of her voice made the knights turn and look narrowly at her. She looked back at them, taking particular measure of the men who stood close to Duncan. Her face was pale but for the untamed green fire of her eyes.
“If any of you draw sword before the combat is declared finished,” Meg said distinctly, “you will know what it is to face the wrath of a Glendruid healer.”
Duncan smiled sadly. “Ah, Meggie, you cannot kill and well you know it.”
“Aye.” Then she smiled slowly, savagely. “There are things worse than death, Dunc
an of Maxwell. See that your men don’t discover them in their dreams and live them upon waking.”
When Meg turned away from Duncan, the priest dropped his well-gnawed bone and crossed himself hastily. All of the men looked uneasy except Dominic. He had attention only for the girl who burned like spring unleashed, forcing life to grow from dead ground. In his mind her words echoed, words that he was only now beginning to understand.
The wounds of winter are starkly revealed before they are healed by spring, and only the most hardy of living things survive renewal.
Healing is not for the faint of heart.
In a silence that was emphasized rather than broken by the priest’s stumbling words, Duncan and Dominic were shriven and final rites administered. When each warrior was prepared to meet his God, the priest’s words stopped.
Simon took Dominic’s helm from Jameson, fitted it over his brother’s head, and removed his mantle. Though not a word was said by either man, Meg’s heart ached for the emotion that shimmered unspoken between the brothers.
When she looked at Duncan, she saw not an enemy but the hazel eyes and reckless smile that had lifted her spirits so often in her childhood. Tears overflowed, blurring the features of the man who was in her heart the brother she had never known.
When Meg could see again, Dominic was watching her and Duncan with eyes like hammered silver. She ached to go to her husband, to hold him once more and be held in turn, but it was too late.
The war horn blew, transfixing the people in the meadow. The sliding notes were like a hellhound baying at a bloody moon. In the silence that followed the last echoing note, two war-horses were led to opposite sides of the meadow. Crusader’s black bulk was matched by the powerful brown body of Duncan’s stallion.
Without a word, the Sword and the Scots Hammer turned and went to their chargers. Both men mounted in the same way, a single tigerish leap, as though chain mail and helm, gauntlets and chausses, sword and shield were made of airy moonlight rather than stout metal. Squires handed over long lances. Each knight couched his weapon, holding it level for the charge to come.
Behind Meg a child cried and a dog growled and a knight’s falcon screamed its ire; and throttled within Meg’s throat was her own despairing scream.
The two stallions reared and trumpeted a challenge that raised a cheer from the assembled knights. Instants later the stallions charged across the meadow, sending chunks of dirt and grass flying. Thunder rolled from the big hooves as the knights raced toward each other, shields raised and lances braced.
A rending clash and slamming of lances, shields, and horses burst over the meadow. Both stallions staggered, recovered, and galloped to the far end of the meadow for another charge. Again thunder rolled. Again came the clash of metal and the thudding of flesh. Again the stallions staggered and regrouped for another pass.
And then again.
And again.
“They are too well matched,” Simon said grimly. “The stallions are within a stone’s weight of one another and well-trained. Unless Duncan makes a mistake or a lance breaks—”
The crack of a shattering lance punctuated Simon’s words. But it wasn’t Duncan’s lance that broke.
It was Dominic’s.
Though he deflected the force of Duncan’s blow with his shield, the sudden destruction of his lance unhorsed Dominic. He gained his feet quickly and ran toward his stallion, but Duncan’s charger pivoted to cut off Dominic from Crusader.
Duncan’s stallion pivoted again, striking Dominic with his shoulder, sending him rolling. Even as Dominic pulled himself to his feet, Duncan charged again. Cheers from the Reevers mixed with groans and curses from Blackthorne’s knights.
Watching in horror, Meg laced her fingers together and bit back the scream that was tearing her throat as the massive brown stallion bore down on Dominic. Duncan’s lance was leveled. If Dominic turned and fled he would be run down by the stallion. If he drew his sword and tried to fight, he would be killed by Duncan’s lance or run down where he stood.
“Nay!”
No one heard Meg’s terrible cry, for every voice was raised in cheers or exhortations. Simon held Meg at his side with fingers like bands of steel, preventing her from running onto the field of battle. She struggled wildly, then stood still, knowing there was nothing she could do.
Dominic stood unmoving, as though he had decided to take his death head-on. Every knight in the meadow expected him to leap aside at the last instant, evading both lance and stallion. It was a common tactic on the battlefield, giving the unmounted knight enough time for a friend to charge over and help the downed knight.
But no one would help Dominic. It was forbidden by custom and by law. God’s judgment, not the speed or number of a man’s friends, decreed the survivor of ritual combat.
Without help Dominic would be able to evade Duncan for a time, but soon a man afoot would tire or stumble. Then Duncan would be on him and Dominic would die.
The brown stallion charged toward Dominic, picking up speed with every stride. Dominic waited, half crouched, his weight on the balls of his feet, obviously ready to spring to either side. Poised to follow his quarry, Duncan lifted slightly out of his saddle, a savage grimace on his face as he bore down on the Norman lord.
In order to evade the lance, Dominic had to stand until the last possible instant before crossing or turning aside from the charger’s path. By the time Dominic moved, the horse was so close that Dominic was pelted with the dirt spurting from beneath the stallion’s feet. Just before he would have been crushed beneath the charger’s hooves, he sprang away.
An odd sound rose above the crowd, a groan that could have been for or against the lord of Blackthorne Keep. Again he was charged by Duncan. Again Dominic leaped away at the last instant. The game of cat and mouse continued for several more passes. Each time Duncan charged he leaned a little more forward in the stirrups, eager to end the lopsided battle.
On the sixth charge, Dominic leaped once more, but it was toward Duncan, not away. Grabbing Duncan’s right foot, Dominic heaved upward with all his considerable strength. The tactic worked. Duncan lost his seat in the saddle.
Even as he came unhorsed, Duncan dropped the useless lance and grabbed for his sword. Although he landed hard on his shoulder, he rolled as Dominic had, coming to his feet like a cat.
Before Duncan could get set, Dominic hit him behind the knees with the flat of his sword. Duncan tumbled backward. There was no chance to regain his balance or to use his sword; Dominic slid the point of his broadsword between Duncan’s chin and the gap in his chain mail hood.
Duncan froze, expecting to die in the next instant. Dominic stood above him, breathing hard from his exertions. Beneath the tip of the sword, blood trickled in a warm stream over Duncan’s neck.
“You once told me you bent the knee to no one but your Scottish king,” Dominic said in a harsh voice that carried easily over the battle ground.
Duncan waited, his eyes narrowed in expectation of immediate death.
“I give you a choice, Duncan of Maxwell. Die now or accept me as your liege.”
For a long breath there was only silence in the meadow. Then the Scots Hammer swore, let go of the hilt of his sword, and smiled crookedly.
“Better your vassal than food for worms,” Duncan said.
Dominic threw back his head and laughed.
“Aye, Duncan. Much better.”
With an easy motion, Dominic sheathed his sword and held out a hand to help Duncan to his feet. But instead of standing, Duncan went down on one knee and bent his head, making it clear to everyone in the meadow that he would yield to Dominic le Sabre even when there wasn’t a sword pricking his throat.
“Stand,” Dominic said.
When Duncan did, Dominic picked up Duncan’s sword and handed it to him hilt first.
“You have given me your word,” Dominic said. “I need no other sign of your loyalty. And an unarmed knight is good to no one, least of all his liege.”
Dominic turned to the waiting knights, but it was the Reevers who received the brunt of his measuring glance.
“I am giving Duncan of Maxwell a large estate on land disputed by the Scots and English kings.”
Duncan turned and stared at Dominic.
“Those of you who follow Duncan have a choice,” Dominic continued. “You may ride out unharmed and never again return to my domains.
“Or you may accept Duncan as your liege, and through him, me.”
25
WHILE DOMINIC AND SIMON oversaw the departure of the Reevers who had chosen to follow Rufus rather than remain with the Scots Hammer, Old Gwyn and Meg worked in the lord’s solar, tending to knights from both sides who had been injured during the long day of games. The solar had been transformed into a makeshift infirmary, for the great hall was being readied for feasting.
“Ouch!” the Scots Hammer yelped, jerking back from Meg’s hands. “That hurts!”
Duncan had insisted on being last to be treated, as his wounds were insignificant.
“Do be still,” Meg retorted. “You didn’t complain nearly as much when Dominic’s sword lay at your throat.”
“I expected to die. What use were complaints?”
Meg gave Duncan a cool look. As much as she liked the Scots Hammer, she would be a long time forgetting the sight of him bearing down on Dominic, ready to end the combat with a killing blow.
“Tip your head back,” she said. “I can’t see your throat.”
“I don’t like the look in your eyes, Meggie. It would be like baring my throat to a she-wolf.”
She glanced at his hazel eyes, saw both the understanding and the rueful amusement, and felt some of her own tension fade.
“If Dominic can spare the life of an enemy,” she said wryly, “I can spare the life of a friend.”
Ignoring the barely concealed smiles of his knights, Duncan grimaced and tilted his head back to give Meg better access to his neck.