One Winter Knight

by Townsend, Lindsay

  Geljon admitted it was hardly proper, yet she could only gawk at Lady Aithinne’s blunt admission. She, of course, was acquainted with Aithinne and had visited Coinnleir Wood on several occasions over the years. Yet, she was not close to the woman who was three years older than she. Word of her marriage to Damian St. Giles, cousin to Julian Challon—the mighty Black Dragon—had spread through the Highlands. Travelling bards spoke of a great love between them, but then bards were always spinning tales of love, honor and great sacrifice. Over the years, she had learnt their stories little resembled life. Thus, she knew little of the true circumstances of her distant kinswoman’s marriage to the handsome Lord Ravenhawke until now.

  “Do not stand with your mouth open, Geljon. Truth be told, I was never raised to be the proper lady. Why I found it passing odd your lord father sent you to me to get a lady’s polish before you wed.” Aithinne laughed softly, moving just a step to the side for a better view to follow the angle of Geljon’s vision. Her brows lifted faintly as she took notice of Fletcher standing two paces to the side, watching Damian. “Have I shocked your maidenly mind with my admission?”

  Geljon offered her a smile. “Nay. I do fear we have more in common, and just not the lack of yearning to be the proper lady. I am taking in the details you revealed. You and your lord husband must have unusual memories of your courtship.”

  “Courtship? Oh, aye. ’Tis one thing to call it.”

  Geljon chuckled. “These past two seasons, bards sing of your great love when they come to visit. ’Tis shame they do no’ ken the half of it. Sounds as if that tale would be more interesting.”

  “Well, I shan’t wish the full story to reach the king’s ears. Perversely, he has his version fixed in his brain, and I shouldst not care to disturb that maggoty cesspit and disabuse him of the notion. Challon plays a dark strange game with this English monarch, not one I care for. I shall be blunt: Edward Longshanks scares me. I am not entirely sure he is sane. Damian says the man possesses a great legal mind, yet men call him the Leopard because he changes his spots to suit his whim. A man like that is dangerous. A powerful man thrice that. I was well glad to see the trail of dust rising on the road between us and him.”

  “My father had to show himself at Berwick to give oath and sign the Ragman Roll. Upon return, he was somber-faced and spoke little of his visit to the English Parliament there. Never have I seen his countenance so grey and worried.”

  Geljon tried to concentrate on her words to Aithinne. Howbeit, her attention was pulled to Fletcher, as he turned and started back with Damian toward the castle. Her heart squeezed faintly and then did a rapid jump in her chest, as he turned full faced and looked upward…almost as if he could sense her presence. She tried to tell her mind that what had taken root had no right to grow in her heart, but with each day’s passing, the feelings strengthened.

  One of the maidservents spake that ’twas not really love, just the rise of mating instincts in a woman of her advanced years. The young girl had not meant to give insult, rather to warn Geljon not to place faith in fleeting emotions. S’truth, most women her age were long married and with a bairn or two. Only, she had relished her freedom. Her deepest hope had been to make a marriage that would be one of honesty and devotion. She supposed many a woman went to a man in the heat of passion, only to find themselves shackled to one they came to dislike.

  Geljon clasped her hands together tightly and her teeth pressed into her lower lip, dreading her coming fate. She could find no joy in the prospects of wedding the Tanist of Clan Leslie. She would be blind not to see how women looked at David Leslie; with his curling auburn hair and green eyes, there was nay denying he was a handsome devil. Perplexingly, there was no putting her finger on what felt off.

  “With good reason, Geljon. Berwick was a hellhole of the Plantagenet’s making. There is just no describing how vile it was.” Aithinne’s smile faded and her hazel eyes darkened, as memories pressed inward upon her mind.

  “When áthair returned, he did not speak for days. That journey changed him. Until then, he had been content to allow me to seek a husband of my choosing. After his homecoming, he grew demanding, insistent that I accept one suitor or another, or he would find one. I supposed in hindsight, I should have acted on my own and made a choice, but I was hurt he would force me to wed just anyone, so I dug my heels in and refused.” Geljon looked away.

  “And he betrothed you to David Leslie without your consent,” Aithinne finished.

  Geljon nodded, still stinging inside at her father’s betrayal. Oh, aye, she understood what moved him to take such an action. Still, it did naught to help her accept it. Later, he would regret forcing her to wed with a man she did not like. By then, it would be too late. Her whole life would be fettered to a man she could find little reason to trust.

  “Do not judge him harshly, Geljon. We live in wicked times. People move in the wake of Longshanks’s passing. He has garrisoned soldiery at every fortress, watch tower and dun throughout this land. The English—for the most part—are a hard bitten bunch. They prey on Scots females. Many scramble to elevate themselves through a Scottish bride who can bring power, titles and oft coin. Your clan is but a small sept of the Ogilvies, yet to some of these wolf hungry mercenaries you be a pretty prize. Your father seeks to protect his people, but he also seeks to give you a husband to see you safe. I thank the goddess that Challon and Damian came to us. Longshanks could have sent worse, ones that would be a pack of mad dogs. Though Longshanks’s sworn men—they stand between these glens and the Plantagenet. Thus far, the ravages of war have stayed away from our gates because of their coming. The name Challon is a golden shield. Rest assured, that is why your sire sought to see your marriage made.”

  “I ken these things. Even so, ’tis easy for you to offer words of acceptance for my fate as being for the best. You are wed to one of the most handsome men. Damian St. Giles is a husband no woman would hesitate to accept. I am being bartered off to a man—” A shiver crawled over her skin.

  She could not explain it. David Leslie was not ugly. Far from it. In spite, there was something about him that made her shy away from him. When others had pressed suit, she had found fault with all. Too skinny, too short, too fat—specific traits, which pushed her to reject them. Her father would laugh and say she was too picky. But then, he returned from Berwick and soon said enough was enough. She had to marry. That her sire had betrothed her to David Leslie without even asking for her approval or agreement rankled. He just announced the wedding would take place by Candlemas, and that was all.

  When she first met David Leslie, he had presented a courtly way, and tried to engage her attention. Clearly, he desired the marriage. She quickly discovered that she wanted to be anywhere but in the man’s presence. Nothing specific arose as a problem, not one single reason she could point to as causing her fae alarm.

  Her father pressed her to say what upset her about the Leslie Tanist, yet when she could offer nary an excuse for her unease, he had said, “Bah, enough, Geljon. You shall wed the man. I will hear no more of your female whinging.”

  “Fletcher’s Shadow needs must take care, dear one.” When Geljon’s eyes flew wide, Aithinne offered her a sad smile. “You did not ken they called you that?”

  “Who does?”

  Aithinne gave a small laugh. “Who does not? A fortress is a small place. It may seem large and overwhelming, but ’tis incestuous. Gossip runs like wildfire, and little escapes notice of all. You trail after Fletcher. They see how your eyes follow his every move.”

  “I did not know it was so apparent.” A blush stung her cheeks, burning. She admitted, “He knows. That was bad enough. I had no idea my name was on everyone’s tongue.”

  “I speak not in admonishing, Geljon. Just caution. Your betrothed will no’ like your traipsing around after Fletcher. Your father will think I was not a good protector of you.” Aithinne watched Fletcher pause and stop to sheath the long sword, and then start toward the fortress. “He’s a h
andsome man. He has the look of a Challon about him. Same dark hair, same green eyes. ’Tis rather telling. Challons breed true, even when they dunna carry the name. I am not sure who his father was. His mother was just a local woman from the village. Whilst Damian’s mother may have been kindness walking, she did no’ take in a village bastard for naught. His father had to have Challon blood in him; ’tis why they took him and made him Damian’s brother in name. I do not ken him well. He has only come of late from England to join Damian. I ken the measure of this man by Damian’s regard for him.”

  Lady Aithinne was still talking, but her words fell on Geljon’s deaf ears. ’Twas sad that she had not met Fletcher St. Giles six months ago. She would not have hesitated to accept an offer of marriage from him. Like Aithinne, she knew little of him, yet it did not take long to sense the kind of man he was. When she was around him she experienced a sense of longing, yes. But it was more than that. Something quiet and rare about Fletcher St. Giles whispered she could trust him with her life.

  If he would only permit it—with her heart.

  ****

  Hairs prickling on the back of his neck, Fletcher stilled his hand from stroking the stallion’s neck. With an innate warrior’s instinct, he felt her presence before he actually heard her coming into the darkened stables. Dressed in the familiar red mantle, the hood was pulled up over the pale brown hair to ward off the blowing storm outside. Snowflakes dotted the material, which faded as she moved farther into the area near the stalls. The horses’ large bodies saw the byre kept warm.

  Moving with unerring accuracy, Geljon came straight to the stall belonging to Eiry. Clearly, she had been watching him leave the castle, knowing he came every evening to give special care to the horse, and had followed. She put her hands on the ropes and leaned into the gate, staring at him with those radiant, haunting eyes.

  Damn her! He so wished she had not followed. He had come to groom the stallion—the only thing he truly owned in this world. The sum total of his worth, and even that was a gift. The time spent here with Eiry was peaceful, away from the noise of the castle, away from nosy minds and judging eyes. In the quietude of the stables, he found true solitude. Each day saw the bond between him and the horse grow. He wanted that established before he took a seat upon his back. Soon, he would go to stay with Challon to finish the training. Truth be told—he wanted to be gone before David Leslie came to claim Geljon as his bride. He was in a foul mood—mostly her fault. Why could she not leave him alone? All at Coinnleir Wood knew she was promised to the Tanist of Clan Leslie.

  ’Twas like a sickness of the mind. Each time he saw her, he wanted her more. No matter how many times he told himself it was useless to even dream, or who warned him to protect his heart, the emotion would not die. Yes, leaving Coinnleir Wood was the only answer. Perhaps he could come back when the spring thaw kissed the land and Geljon was long away.

  “I fetched you an apple,” she said, holding out the fruit to him.

  Fletcher finally drew breath again. “Me, or the horse?” He gave a soft laugh, but it sounded tense.

  “I have seen you forgoing the treat at supper. You come to this horse and give your portion to him. Already, you care for the destrier.”

  Fletcher nodded. “He’s worth all the apples in Scotland.”

  She pushed out her hand. “Take it. The white beastie will get more pleasure from it than I would.”

  “You do not like apples?” It seemed like a calm question coming from him, when he felt anything but.

  “Oh, aye, in winter they are a rare treasure. Methinks your horse will enjoy it more.”

  “For Eiry then, thanks to you, Lady Geljon. You are most kind.”

  “Why do you always use my title? You dunna call Aithinne in that manner when you address her. I think you do that to put a shield between us.”

  The muscles in Fletcher’s jaw flexed in rising anger. “What is your aim in seeking me out, Lady Geljon? There be no need for a shield between us. There be naught betwixt us. You belong to David Leslie. Soon, he will come collect you. Then, you will be far away and I will be a shard of a distant past, not even a passing memory.”

  “Lies you tell yourself, Fletcher, naught more.”

  Eiry pulled his head around to look at Geljon and then turned back to Fletcher, the big expressive eyes clearly saying he wanted the apple. Fletcher gave a faint nod, and the animal slowly rotated in the small stall, going up to Geljon. She extended her arm, putting the apple closer to the mouth of the horse. Careful, she knew to offer it with her palm flat, so the animal’s mouth did not accidentally catch one of her fingers. The velvet nostrils flared as he sniffed the fruit, then he rumbled in his chest.

  “Well, why do you wait? She fetched it for you.”

  Geljon smiled. “He waits for you to give it to him. A true knight’s horse will no’ accept food save from his stable boy and his knight.”

  Fletcher took the apple from her, and then handed it to Eiry, who greedily chomped it down in three bites. He shook his head up and down, setting the white mane to rippling. “He thanks you, Lady Geljon.”

  “You are most welcome, Eiry.” She laughed softly.

  “Why did you come here, Geljon?”

  She grinned. “See, you can speak to me without using my rank.”

  “Why?” he pressed.

  She shrugged, reaching out to pat the forehead of the stallion, as he hung his head over the rope gate. “I brought the apple for your horse.”

  “Eiry might cry purchase to that half-truth, but we both know it for the lie it is.”

  “Very, well, Lord Know-It-All—”

  Fletcher’s muscles tightened. “I am no lord of anything.”

  “You think that matters to me? I see before me a man of honor. Ravenhawke holds you in high esteem. I witness this every time you share company. Aithinne respects you.”

  “She has known me for only a few months.” He allowed the horse to lean his head into him, seeking affection.

  “Sometimes, it takes only one meeting to judge the measure of a man. Besides, all in Clan Ogilvie speak that she is a powerful witch, nearly as strong as Lady Tamlyn of Glenrogha. Both women are blessed with the Kenning. They walk in others thoughts, see what people oft tried to hide from the world. Had she sensed anything twisted or dark within you, she would not hesitate to let such be kenned. And whilst the women of Seacrest blood dunna have this ability, I sense the good in you, Fletcher. Scots never put much faith in titles, rank or station of birth. A man proves himself in life, who he is by what he stands for, who he steps before to shield—that is what be real.”

  “Lofty notions spake by someone of rank who has not lived t’other.”

  “Oh, and you have lived as a bastard? Truly? Methinks you were raised as the brother of Damian St. Giles, and you are considered one of the Dragons of Challon, as such. Men tremble in fear and deference when the Challon cadre rides past. Aithinne says your appearance is no’ happenstance. She states you have the look of a Challon about you—the telling black hair and green eyes, that your sire must have been a man of Challon blood. ’Tis why Damian’s mother went to fetch you.”

  Could that be true? Fletcher nearly reeled with the force of her words. “All I know is my father died before I was born. My mother succumbed to lung sickness when I was barely three summers old. The only thing I have to say who he was is the longbow he left behind.”

  “Does it matter who he was? Aithinne swears you are of Challon blood. Even that matters little when compared to the man you are. The man who stands before me.”

  Fletcher moved his head faintly side-to-side in denial, so frustrated he wanted to throw something against the wall. He could find nothing to vent his anger upon, and knowing he would scare the stallion if he had, he just clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Why…why…why do you torment me this way, Geljon? I am a good man, being a bastard doesn’t matter to the Scots—” he looked at her, accusing, “—to you. These words shan’t change one damn t
hing. Come Yule, David Leslie will ride into Coinnleir Wood and claim you as his bride. And you will go.”

  Her teeth pressed into her lower lip to keep it from quivering. She gave a slight nod, and then looked down at the tips of her boots, just barely visible in the growing darkness brought on by nightfall. Her fingers gripped the ropes as if hanging on with her last remaining strength. That poignant stance was a dagger to his heart.

  He wanted to go to her and put his arms around her, comfort her. Instead, his anger kept him rooted to the spot. “You will go with him, will you not?”

  She gave a small nod, without looking up.

  He closed his eyes against the wash of pain flooding through him. Stupid, stupid fool. Oh, aye, fool he was. He knew from the very start there was no hope, why he had tried to kill the emotion from taking root in his heart.

  Choked by the sentiments cording his muscles and clogging his throat, he could only force out the one word. “Why?”

  Swallowing hard, she lifted her head to meet his eyes. Unshed tears shimmered in hers. “You dunna understand…I owe this to my clan, my people…”

  Somehow, it was the wrong thing to say. His pain turned into a fury, white hot. “Oh, aye, a lowly bastard cannot understand the fate of nobility, the sacrifices such a rank demands. Well, by damn, then I have the better lot of the two, for no man will sell me like horseflesh, to be bartered off for the betterment of a holding. One has to ponder—wouldst your clansmen sacrifice as much for you? I have doubt. I may have naught but a longbow, left to me by a man whose name I do not even know, and a horse that is worth more than I am, but whilst I owe allegiance to Damian St. Giles, I am my own man.”