“What is in my heart?” Fletcher finished for his liege.
Words once more summoned Damian’s melodic laughter. “Heart? You have your heart engaged? ’Tis worse than I affeared. My word-arrow was aimed much lower—I was going to say your braies.” His smile slowly faded as his bright green eyes regarded the man before him. “Your station of birth means naught to me—never has. And oddly, perhaps more wisely, it means little to these Scots you now live amongst. Howbeit, Lady Geljon be promised to another. Her father seeks an alliance with Clan Leslie, an attempt to better their situation. Seacrest will not be happy to see his daughter’s eyes lingering on you.”
“Then, speak to her. I do naught to draw them.” Fletcher hated facing this rebuke.
He knew what he was. Had he not defiantly worn a bar sinister on his shield to proclaim his station, and did not give a damn what the world thought? Most of the time, he meant that stance. Only, this past sennight, it pressed inward on his mind. To have Damian address the situation only picked at the wound, reminding him of his lack of value in this world.
Damian’s wise eyes, which oft seemed to know more than mere mortals, fixed on his face. “I only say these things, Fletcher, to give you a shield for your heart. I should not wish to see you place your affection at the feet of one you can never have. Yes, Fletcher’s Shadow has her eyes on you at every turn. This, you cannot prevent. Only, I cannot help but see you looking back.”
“I require no shield. No need be there for any reminder of my lack of worth. Or shall I burn the bar sinister into my flesh—a more visible notice to the world that my father died before my birth, before giving me his name.”
“You have a name.” Damian glowered. “A shame ’tis not good enough salve to heal the sore you take too much joy in pulling the scab off at regular intervals.”
Fletcher knew there was no use in arguing with Damian. He was right. Geljon was promised to another. Even if he were a man born with status and property, he doubted his suit would be heard. Her father hoped to make pact here on Scottish soil, and not with some Norman knight, a newcomer to this land. “Rest assured, I keep my urges—and affection—to myself.”
“Fletcher, some day you shall find peace over your birth. Being born a bastard is naught to drag you down. You are a fine man—one I consider my brother—”
“Consider. But not by blood.”
“A man’s birth is by accident. How he thinks, his actions—that be the measure of his true worth.”
Fletcher gave him a nod of deference and tried to move past Damian. Instead, Ravenhawke fell into step beside him.
“So, it seems the snow starts early this year.” Damian lifted the black hood of his mantle over his head, blocking the thickening snowflakes from covering his black wavy hair. “Aithinne is fixed on holding a big celebration for Yuletide. If the snowfall blocks the passes she shall be most upset. Word of care—since this is your first winter at Coinnleir Wood—shouldst her brothers invite you to go hunt for the Yule tree, find reason not to agree. They shall deliberately lead you around and around, tromping in the woods on pretext of being lost, simply to freeze you to near death. Mind, I speak from experience.”
Fletcher paid scant heed to Damian’s chatter about the coming holidays. He little relished the customs of family times. Outside of Damian, and the other men of Challon, he had no family. His mother had died when he was small, barely more than a babe. What few recollections he could summon of her were, at best, vague.
In his most distant memories, he could recall shards of images, of him sitting on a dirt floor in a daub and wattle hut, crying, and being very cold and hungry. Then, a beautiful lady came and took him away. Damian’s mother. She spoke to him in Scots words, and though he failed to understand what she crooned, he felt safe in her embrace. He could clearly recall another boy with black curling hair and shocking green eyes, staring at him as he hungrily ate porridge. The beautiful child smiled and said, “You shall be my brother, Fletcher St. Giles.”
Fletcher St. Giles, reared in a noble family, but not of noble blood. Over the years, he had learnt to live with that less than lofty birth. He told himself it little mattered. He owned the clothes on his back and the longbow left to him by a father he had never known, who died before he was born. He’d likely draw his last breath with naught more to call his own. Nothing to offer any woman, especially someone such as Lady Geljon Seacrest.
“Come, this should take the sting out of my words.” Damian touched his elbow. “I have a gift for you.”
Fletcher’s steps faltered as he entered the bailey, his eyes falling on Geljon. She stood before the round tower, tugging the bright red mantle about her, and talking with two of the maidservants. Her head lifted faintly, looking past the other women, as her eyes locked with his. She offered him a soft poignant smile, though he could little read the purpose.
Females! They wanted a man, yet did not want the trouble that came with him. Silly notions of courtly love touted by nodcock bards distorted the truths of the real world. Why could she not have held onto that distance he had purposely created in the wood?
When he failed to return her smile, her expression grew somber, and she quickly glanced away. Had tears been flooding her eyes? Fletcher feigned ignorance of her presence, particularly since he could feel Damian watching him, scrutinizing his reaction to seeing Geljon.
“Ah, ’tis not good.” Damian sighed, half under his breath. “Fools dance to pipe and drum, even when their steps are unsure.”
Fletcher tried to pretend he was just looking about the inner bailey, a warrior’s nature of always checking the lay of the land. Tried and failed, he supposed, because the worried frown did not leave Damian’s face. “What is not good, my lord?”
“Enough! The my lord nonsense wearies me. Stop working to create distance between us by the address. We are the same as when we fought at Redam’s side to win back his family’s honor. Recall? Naught has changed since that dark day. So, if you speak to me with rank one more time this eve I shall drag you out to the lists and teach you a lesson in once a brother always a brother. Blood matters little. Loyalty is what counts.” Damian opened the door to the stable. “I tell you I have a gift for you and you say naught. No surprise, not a question. Your thoughts spin in circles, dizzy with a brown-haired girl. A distemper has seized your mind, my friend. Mayhap my gift will shake the somber fit of your thoughts.”
Damian stepped into the shadows of the darkened stable, leaving Fletcher to follow. He paused with his hand on the door, unable to stop himself from glancing back to Geljon. The possibility that he might have caused her to cry was a knife to his gut. Damn, he hated the surge of guilt washing through his insides.
Still, it was for the best. Best for her. Best for him.
****
Damian paused before the stall of a snow-white stallion. The horse’s ears perked up at their approach, and by his intelligent eyes, he was clearly curious about the coming visitors. Offering a deep throated murmur of questioning well-come, the animal turned toward the opening, blocked by a gate woven from hemp fiber—the very best kind of rope. Lifting his head, he hung it over the corded barrier and nudged his soft muzzle against Damian’s chest.
“He be a spoilt one. I shared an apple with him. Now, he insists on it each time. He is a full brother to Guillaume’s stallion.”
Fletcher could not resist. His hand reached out and stroked the curve of the beast’s jaw. “He is an animal rare. Magnificent.”
“Well, do no’ be tellin’ him that. He be arrogant enough already.” Damian took an apple out of the pouch tied to his belt at the waist. He held it out to Fletcher. “Silly man. I bring him in here to gift him with something and he asks not a word. Get your head out of the clouds.”
Fletcher stared at the apple. “Why should you want me to feed your horse?”
“I do no’ want you to feed my horse. Methinks you should wish to feed your horse.” Damian stood holding the fruit, awaiting reaction to his pronounc
ement.
Fletcher blinked, trying to take in the meaning of Damian’s words. “You jest?”
“Nay, this creature be my Yuletide gift to you. A few days early, but still my heartfelt present for one I love as a brother. You like him?”
Fletcher tried to draw a breath but found it hard, attempting to absorb the enormity of the present. This horse was no palfrey, but a Cold-Blooded Friesian, a majestic animal that any knight would value above all. The worth of a destrier was oft equal to his armor, and both used in ransom, for little a warrior owned was worth as much.
“Only a fool would not find pride in this beast. Even so, you may as well be jesting, my lord. You ken I cannot accept this animal.” Fletcher’s teeth worried his lower lip.
“Nonsense. I give you something that bespeaks how I respect you and your place in my life. I feel blessed you came here when I sent word. Besides, to refuse the present brings ill-fortune. This horse is yours, Fletcher. If needs must, I shall command you to accept Eiry. As your liege you may not disobey me.”
“Eiry? ’Tis Welsh for snow? Odd. Why not name him something in the Scots tongue?”
Damian shrugged. “I believe there are nearly two score words in the Scots for various forms of snow, yet none seemed to fit. The sire was a Gypsy trained stallion, one of two Challon bought in Wales. Challon gave Guillaume the other destrier before they left England and came northward. A brother gifting a brother. Somehow, when you joined me here at Coinnleir Wood, the notion took root that I should repeat the gesture. So I bartered for this animal. And if you start with the sing-song of ‘we are not brothers’, well, swallow your words before you force me to knock them back behind your teeth. There be other things I wish to speak to you of, changes I wish to make here, but we shall save them for after the Yuletide celebrations. So? Do you like Eiry?”
Fletcher rubbed the forehead of the gentle beast. “He is a stallion beyond compare. Is he trained yet?”
“Oh, aye, he is ready for a knight to sit upon his back.”
Fletcher redundantly reminded him, “I am no knight.”
“No, you are not. And whose fault be that? You will need to spend time with Challon. Let him help you bond with Eiry. He is the best with training destriers.” He patted Fletcher’s shoulder. “Come, feed the haughty critter his apple and let us be off for supper. I should not wish to have the Lady Aithinne angry at me for holding matters up.”
Fletcher fought the knot forming in his throat at Damian’s respect and the generosity. All knew the Dragons of Challon were a closely woven pack, extending from the sons of Michael Challon to the cousins and even second cousins. Though he had grown up with them, he had never truly felt a part of that life-long bond. Instead, he had always accepted he was an outsider. The one he had been closest to was Darian Challon, because he, too, was baseborn from a woman of low birth. Possibly, why he had insisted on excelling at the skill of using the longbow. It was not a knight’s weapon.
Fletcher looked up from feeding the horse his apple. “Damian?” he spoke to his friend’s retreating back.
He turned and offered him a smile. “Yes?”
“Thank you. And for more than this wonderful horse.”
“Bigod! I think you may finally understand how valued you are, how much your coming here means to me, Fletcher.” Damian laughed softly, and vanished through the small side door.
“Well, horse. Seems you and I shall be paying the mighty Dragon of Challon a visit, shouldst the weather hold.”
The horse nickered and bobbed his head up and down as if he agreed.
****
Two days later, as the sun drifted lower toward the far hill, Geljon stood staring out the narrow window of the solar and down to the bailey below. She watched the men on the training field, far to the side of the large ballium. Off to the extreme left, two squires worked using nets and swords, perfecting skills against the fixed quintain. Behind them, four other men-at-arms lazily took turns battling each other with long wooden quarterstaffs.
Not boding well, Lady Aithinne’s three brothers—trins—sat upon the wall ringing the practice yard, swinging their feet back and forth to clunk their heels together, clearly hoping to espy some bit of mischief they might stir up. Hugh, Deward and Lewis were excellent with the staff, especial when they worked as a band, though most would hardly expect it of them. A few jested the lads truly had one mind betwixt the three of them. Unsuspecting men—including Lord Ravenhawke—had learnt this truth of their proficiency the hard way. Since Damian St. Giles had married the Lady Aithinne over a year past, soldiers under Ravenhawke’s command had discovered the lads’ evil accuracy and stayed clear of accepting any offers to help with the training. The three young men, so alike in appearance, were not to be trusted. Not mean, they were constantly on the prod to cause troubles simply to break their boredom.
All activity seemed to fade to grey as Geljon’s attention was drawn by two men in the center of the enclosure—Lord Ravenhawke and Fletcher St. Giles. They fought with swords—not wooden ones either, that most knights use for daily training. Fletcher was one of the best bowmen to ever notch an arrow—all spake of his nearly legendary gift, but his training had clearly not stopped there. She had learnt over the past weeks that he was a strong fighter with a hand-and-a-half sword.
At present, Damian was teaching him to use the Highlanders’ claymore, a blade nearly as long as a man’s height. In the beginning, their work seemed cumbersome; only, as Fletcher grew familiar with the great weapon, he slowly began to become one with the sword. The movements were interesting, as a claymore could be used as a hacking sword, but uniquely—because of the great length—could also become a shield, if one were well-versed with its abilities. She watched the tall bowman lunge and swing the massive blade, and in one fluid motion, brought it back over his shoulder, to block an attack, the actions smooth, graceful showing he grew accustomed to the longer Scottish sword.
She could watch him endlessly. There was a physical beauty about him that robbed her of breath.
Fletcher St. Giles was a slight shade taller than most of the other Norman men, who had followed Ravenhawke to his new holdings. He had been sent to Scotland to claim the honour of his grandsire. By marriage to Lady Aithinne, he had expanded that barony to include her fief of Coinnleir Wood. Fletcher had remained with the king, but had come in early autumn at Lord Ravenhawke’s request. The two men clearly were close, and oft shared confidences in the evenings by fireside. Even so, there was a distance toward all that Fletcher worked to maintain. Gradually, she had gleaned enough details about his past to understand why. She stared, mesmerized by the tall Englishman and his powerful mastery of the weapon.
Just then, Deward nudged his brother—from this distance she could not tell if it was Hugh or Lewis, since all three looked so much alike—then, they pushed off the wall with a hop, and strolled away. A short time later they returned, coming up behind Damian, the three of them using their bodies to shield that Deward carried a large bucket, dangling from his hands behind him. At the last instant, Deward hefted the bucket high and dumped the contents on their unsuspecting brother-by-marriage. Damian stood still as the icy water sluiced over his head, and in riverlets ran down his body, soaking his brown sark and leather jack.
“Oh, my!” Geljon gasped, at the less-than-playful antics. Damian St. Giles was a formidable man, and she suspected he would not take the stunt with a smile and a by-your-leave. Only Aithinne’s troublemaking brothers would dare such an affront!
Aithinne came to her side to see Damian turn and stalk toward Deward—now abandoned by the scurrying Lewis and Hugh. Deward awkwardly scampered backward, trying not to fall. As a last effort to escape, he attempted to hide behind the four men with the staffs. They paused to object to the situation unfolding about them. One jerked his quarterstaff away from the grasp of Deward as he made a lunge for it.
“No need to worry. Damian shall not hurt him—well, naught that is lasting. I made him swear on his grandfather’s
memory not to kill or maim my brothers. If I have survived this many years enduring their mooncalf antics, he can take dealing with their gambols. Silly nodcocks. For some reason, they take great sport in tormenting my lord husband.” Aithinne watched as Deward scrambled to stay out of the reach of Ravenhawke. “Of course, if they had not developed the penchant for pestering Damian, we might not be wed today. I suppose that thought is at the back of Damian’s mind as well—why he does not kill at least one of the three.”
Geljon could not suppress her curiosity. “Why would their plaguing St. Giles have caused you to wed with him?”
A trace of a satisfied smile played across her lips, as her husband tripped Deward to get him off balance, and then snatched him up by one thigh to hold him upside down. Yelping, arms akimbo and flailing at the air, Deward called out to his mirror-image brothers to come help him. Both wisely remained huddled behind the opposite side of the wall, and peeping over the edge.
“Och, no need to fash. He shall not do him harm. Methinks, in an odd fashion, Damian holds a fondness for my troublesome brothers. Oh, he rages and keeps threatening to send them off to Challon to be trained as squires. Challon would never put up with their antics, or allow the three to remain in training together. Damian kens this.”
Her husband carried the screaming lad to the horse trough and dropped him head first into the water. Putting his fisted hands on his hips, Damian threw his head back, laughing as Deward cursed to the high heavens and thrashed in the tank.
“’Tis a long tale how my brothers are responsible for Damian marrying with me. The dark times created by Edward Longshanks left me with few options. I was desperate to hang on to his grandsire’s holdings by any means. I was his ward. We had no idea Longshanks was sending Damian here to assume the barony. No word had been sent. Neighboring clans were licking their lips and hoping to abscond with his fief. I was at wits end over what to do to hold them at bay. Damian came northward, following in Challon’s wake, carrying charter from Edward. He was to claim Ravenhawke and hold it, by right of blood through his mother. Of course, my brothers little knew who he was, or that he was the true heir to Ravenhawke. Not sure it would have mattered to their scattered minds. They took a liking to him, so they drugged him with mead and one of Oona’s potions. Well, as I said—’tis a long tale best saved for another night. The bones of the story—my brothers kidnapped Damian and dropped him in my bed so I could get with child. My aim was to claim the child as heir to Ravenhawke.”
One Winter Knight Page 6