One Winter Knight

by Townsend, Lindsay

  Damn that heather mead! He could not recall imbibing overly. Try as he may, he was finding it hard to remember the events of the evening. Some nonsense about the Oak King and Holly King battling. Oh, yes, it came back to him. Images of him fighting David Leslie flashed through his mind. Almost painful, his throbbing head felt too heavy to hold up. Odd, he distinctly recalled accepting only one more tankard of the drink. The lads had rushed up after Leslie stormed out of the bailey, the tankard in Deward’s hand—mayhap it had been Lewis—saying he must accept the victor’s drink.

  Fletcher was just relieved that Leslie was gone, and that Geljon had stayed. Everything else could work itself out on the morrow. She had come over and kissed him on the cheek, congratulating him on the victory. Through the boisterous cheering around him, he leaned to her ear and whispered, “I ken what is wrong with the man.”

  Surprise and curiosity molded her beautiful face. “Do tell, my fine Holly Lord.”

  “He has no eyebrows.” He laughed, and she joined his mirth.

  She was there at his side, and affixing the spring of holly in the right side of her hair. Then, the crowd, pushed against them, separating them. She stood there, so beautiful and smiling, so lovely it made it hard to draw a breath. And the next instant, the boisterous merrymaking almost seemed to enfold about her and spirit her away.

  Urgently, he tried to push through all the men and women starting to dance in a ring, some pausing to toss a piece of cloth into the flames of the Yule log and making a wish for the year to come. People stopped him, taking hold of his arm to pull him into the ring. He politely pushed them aside, fighting to reach Geljon.

  The last memory he could summon, was rushing to the doors of the Great Hall—but she had vanished. Lewis was standing there, holding a tankard. Fletcher asked which way Geljon had gone, and Lewis pushed the drink into his hands, saying to drink the victor’s portion. The other two brothers materialized at his elbows, encourage him to down the brew without stopping.

  Hugh assured him, “Kill the brew, Fletcher. We shall help you run the fair lady to ground after.”

  The hour was late, nearing dawning, and most of the castle people had long ago sought their pallets, full of good food and ale from the Yule celebration. Formless lumps lined the darkened corridor and they had to tread carefully so not to step on some sleeping soul. When they took the turn to the far tower, Fletcher felt his knees buckle. ’Twas not like him to be so weak after only three drinks—even if it had been heather mead.

  Lewis grumbled, “By Saint Cuthburh’s hinny, he is a braw one! I can hardly keep him standing.”

  Hugh nodded. “Just as well. You each take an arm, and I will get his feet.” He leaned in close to Fletcher’s face, studying him. “He will be out in a heartbeat, anyway.”

  “My…room…” Fletcher mumbled, and pointed in the direction of the chamber they passed. He tried to summon enough strength to get to his feet, and demand what the hell was going on, but his eyelids lowered and he just wanted to sleep.

  Hugh’s voice floated through the blackness of his mind. “We take you to a far, far better place, methinks.”

  ****

  Some sound caused Fletcher’s muscles to arch hard, jerking him to consciousness in the bed. For a heartbeat, he drew upon his warrior’s instincts to identify what had pulled him from the black, dreamless sleep. He could wiggle his toes—just barely—all other muscles were stiff and unwilling to stir. From so many years of sleeping in foreign places, even on the cold, hard ground, he was used to coming awake, fully alert in a breath, knowing his life oft depended upon the ability. You risked dying if you could not.

  The fact he seemed unable to react as he normally did alarmed him. He needed to assess the threat, from which direction it came, but all he could do was lie flat on his back and breathe. That he was this helpless sent his heart to rocking. Without turning his head, he could discern the bed was in a room unfamiliar to him. It was comfortable; furs were piled deep and the ropes tightened to give his back proper support. He lay covered in a long plaide, the pattern not discernable in the shadows cast by the peat fire burning in the fireplace.

  He blinked thrice at the dream before it. A woman stood, tossing something into the fire to see it flash and burn brighter. Flames silhouetted her naked form—full breasts, narrow waist, rounded hips—a body that would set any man’s blood to singing. Her long, straight hair fell to the small of her spine. The heavy mass swayed as she faintly rocked back and forth, whilst she hummed a fīth-fāth, a sing-song chant of making. What spell she wove he had no idea. He little cared. He could watch her lithe body undulating all night. As his vision began to clear, he saw she wore some sort of adornment, a chaplet upon her brow. Could it be the holly wreath he had worn in the battle against the Oak King?

  His hands fisted at his sides as he struggled to move. If he could rise, he would go to her and sweep her into his arms—asking no questions, and accepting what she would give.

  But then the face of Geljon flooded his brain. He loved her…only her. More than life itself. Strange, how deep his devotion was if he did not want to betray Geljon even in a hallucination.

  As his mind slowly started to function, he grew aware he was naked under the woolen covers. He closed his eyes and tried to still his erratic breathing, wondering if this was naught but a silly dream? When he opened them, she had moved. She now stood hovering over him, nearly hidden by the night’s shadows. He opened his mouth to ask if this was only a fevered fantasy. Or was she real?

  She silenced him by putting the first finger of her right hand against his lips. “This night you fought the great battle of the holly and oak, rites as ancient as time. You won, my Holly Lord. ’Twas not how the ritual goes, but methinks you fought for more than the banishing of winter. My heart tells me you fought for love.”

  “Geljon,” he gasped, as she smeared an ointment across his lips. It tasted sweet, and was more potent than mead.

  “’Tis a man’s world, full of man’s ways. This night, I reign as the Holly Queen, and I decree you needs must set to right what you have done in vanquishing the Oak Lord. Oh, all powerful king, only you can make the spring come.”

  Pulling back the covers, she slid under the bedding against him. Flesh against flesh. His body bucked hard as her heat singed him. Reaching up, she arched over him to bring her mouth to his. Her kiss was light, hardly more than a brush from butterfly wings. Then, her lips settled on his, taking him in a hungry, bruising caress that demanded a response.

  Where he had been frozen and unable to move before, a surging power saw all his muscles contract to his command. With a big cat’s grace he flexed and then rolled her under him, his legs spreading hers. With one thrust his flesh speared into her body. He caught the surprised gasp with a scorching kiss, quickly making her forget about the small pain she experienced, a mark of their bonding. Her sharp nails dug into the backs of his arms, but not in resistance. ’Twas hunger that wracked her virgin flesh.

  Geljon looked up, the firelight falling across her lovely face. “I am cold, Fletcher. Drive the winter from my soul. Summon the spring.”

  ****

  At dawnbreak, despite a heavy storm blanketing the land, Fletcher saddled Eiry and rode out of Coinnleir Wood, in an effort to clear his head of the wool in his thoughts left by the Yule mead. Had last night been merely a dream summoned by the mix of wishes and fermented heather and honey? Closing his eyes, he allowed his senses to reach out and summon the scent of her hair, the taste of her skin, or feel the heat of passion coursing through her blood as he drove himself into her. Holly Queen? Bah! He knew Geljon. She was branded upon his soul. Sensations skittered across his skin and sent a throb through his blood, then congealed into a knife to his gut. Conjured by the vivid recollections. Everything seemed too real to have been a dream.

  Geljon. A name without meaning. A woman beyond compare.

  Still, when he had awoken in his own chamber and no signs of Geljon or anything amiss, he was half r
eady to chalk up the night as a delusion brought on by the trins giving him the mead. Mayhap it had been some jest the lads played upon him, putting a tansy in the drink.

  As he rode up the side of the hill, lost in the warm pleasure of the remembrances, his focus was rattled when he heard a clamor on the far side of the crest. The horse, trained for battle, knew the sounds as well; his ears perked up, his nostrils expelling rapid streams of vapor in the cold morning air. He reined the stallion to a halt at the line of trees, careful to get a clear idea of what he might ride into.

  Overnight, snow saw all covered in white, the wet flakes were now half up his boots, though he could see the spindrift was deeper, piling high as a man’s waist, he judged. Moaning in hushed whispers, the high winds drove the fallen snow off the trees and boulders, sending it spinning around in the storm to where it was nearly blinding. As Fletcher looked down the hillside, trying to make out what was happening in the snowy scape, the icy flecks lashed at his eyes and face, stinging and sticking to his lashes.

  Just below, a van moved ahead of a party, coming through the lower pass. A skirmish had begun at the bottom of the hill, half hidden by scrub cedars and pines. Swords clanking, men shouting, the hard thuds of metal tipped bolts from crossbows hitting and sinking into boiled leather vests—sounds a warrior never forgot.

  An undetermined number of hooded men seemed to melt from the shadows of a large stand of boulders, and converge on the fore of the vanguard, driving a wedge between the knights and the party following. When wading into a battle of undetermined alliances, you oft could end up on the wrong side of right. These soldiery were not from Coinnleir Wood, nor were ones that belonged to Julian Challon. Thus, their presence on Damian’s land brought forth questions for both sides being here. Howbeit, as he watched more men moving forward from the rocks where the pass narrowed, he discerned this was clearly a planned assault. The men had been hidden, lying in wait for the smaller party to enter the tapering of the short dale. The force materializing from hiding was doing murder.

  He could not hold back to determine right and wrong. He had to put a stop to this.

  Riding to the fortress and sounding alarm was no option. The slaughter would be over before he could return with help. He was not sure if Damian’s knights had ridden forth on the regular patrol this morn, or still slumbered, drugged by too much food and drink from the Yuletide celebration. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, then hesitated. He was only one man. Riding into this cacophony of death could see his own life at peril. No time for second guessing, he swung out of the saddle and landed on both feet upon the snowy ground.

  He unslung the bow from his back, and removed seven arrows from the quiver, which he planted tips down into the snow-whitened soil by the toe of his right boot. Notching the first arrow, he picked a target—a man clothed in brown. With sword drawn, he ran toward an unseated knight. The man on the ground weakly lifted his sword, an attempt to block the blow that would surely bring death. Fletcher’s fingers released the drawn bow string, the feathered arrow sailing sure and true. The attacker lurched as the shaft of wood ripped through his unprotected back. For a heartbeat, he held his sword high, frozen for that instant in time, then he crumpled to his knees and finally fell face forward in the snow and dirt. That allowed another knight on foot to grab the fallen companion and help drag him back toward the shelter of a knot of pines.

  By that time, Fletcher’s second and third arrows found marks. Then, another and another. Finally, all seven arrows loosed had found their targets, as suddenly, the attackers grew aware they were now the quarry. A couple of hooded men spun around, looking to espy where the counterattack was originating. One shouted, and began frantically waving in Fletcher’s direction. He could almost determine the man’s face through the driving snow. Fletcher let another arrow fly. It ripped through the man’s neck and he fell onto his back.

  Who had he been waving to? Fletcher paused, his eyes scanning the snow-blinding hillside. It had been to his left and higher up the hill, but not as high at where he stood. Then, the wind shifted, changing direction, and parted to reveal a dark form about halfway down the sheil. A rider on a black horse sat watching and commanding the battle. His long black mantle covered him to past the knees; the hood was up over his head, seeing him little more than a wraith of death. From this distance, it was a long shot. The leader was nearly out of range, and the wind was coming in the wrong direction, but the quickest way to stop the battle was remove the head of the snake.

  The man stood up in the stirrups, as if trying to spot what his soldier had been shouting about. Then, he rotated in Fletcher’s direction.

  “Oh aye, my pretty captain…turn this way and I shall end your evil concerns,” Fletcher said playfully under his breath.

  He loosed the arrow and it nearly sang as it flew toward his aim. Fletcher needed to move now or be at risk. Hesitating a moment too long, he wanted to see the bolt of wood hit the man’s body, watch as he reeled from the impact. His aim had been true. It should hit him in the hollow of his throat. He assumed as a commander the man would wear mail under that mantle. Between mantle, mail, jack and silk arming shirt, an arrow—even from a longbow—would not strike a deadly blow if pointed at the chest. But possibly these Highlanders did not wear a gorget. He had noticed most never did, nor had he seen many with a metal coif covering their heads. Thus, it meant there was a chance to hit the soft exposed tissue just above the jack.

  At the last moment, the man shifted in the saddle. Instead of hitting where Fletcher aimed, the wooden shaft tore into the shoulder and lodged there. The cloaked man spun in the saddle and nearly lost his seat. Two mounted warriors rushed to his aid. The one on the far side took up the lead on the black horse to prevent it from bolting, whilst the second sent his mount before the commander and raised his long shield to give protection. Spurs to their mounts, they hurriedly removed their leader from the field.

  Without a controlling head to think for them, the roughly trained soldiery began to lose ground. Fletcher kept up the steady rain of arrows, dropping five more, before the weakening force panicked and pulled back.

  Mounting Eiry, he drew his sword and charged down the hill, catching a couple fleeing and dispatching them. He pulled up when he saw three dismounted crossbow men, bolts aimed at him, with two mounted knights behind them.

  One knight called, “Hold! He be the archer and not with the curs.”

  Assured he would not be shot, Fletcher kneed Eiry forward. “Fletcher St. Giles of Coinnleir Wood I be. You stand on the lands of Lord Ravenhawke. I be his man.”

  He older knight nodded in relief. “Come, I will make you known to our laird.”

  The archers parted to allow him through their line. Fletcher followed the rider back to the center of the party, where several helped an old man mount upon the back of his steed. “Is he hurt?” Fletcher asked.

  The white-haired man laughed, “Only my bloody arse and my fool pride. I canno’ recall the last time I was unseated from my horse. Who is this, then? Our fine archer?”

  “Aye, laird. He be from Coinnleir Wood. Name Fletcher St. Giles,” his man answered.

  The brows, snowy white as the stock of hair, lifted. “Fletcher be your name, braw warrior? Small wonder you handle the bow with a gift I have ne’er witnessed in my days.” The man might be in his grey years, but his eyes were shrewd and his questions direct. “You the bastard Ravenhawke claims as a brother?”

  “In the flesh.” Fletcher nodded, feeling no rancor for the laird’s speaking the truth. “Sir, you are bleeding—”

  The old man reached up and dabbed at the blood coming from a cut at the hairline, and trickling down the side of his weathered face. “The blood tells me I be a lucky bastard.” He laughed. “Oh, aye, I be one, as well. We Scots never looked at such a thing as a mark against us. So, we have common ground, eh? A bolt from a miscreant’s crossbow damn near finished me. Your deadly accuracy with that English bow saved what be left of us.”

&nb
sp; “We needs must get you to Coinnleir Wood and to safety. They might flank us and attack again. You need help for your wound. Coinnleir Wood will send men to care for the fallen. I wounded the leader—an arrow to the shoulder,” Fletcher told him.

  “The hell you say?” The old man’s face spread into a grin as he accepted the reins to his mount from his man, readying him to move out. “Well, the devil got part of his dues then. Could you tell who he was? These curs bear no colors on them, nay plaide. We canno’ tell who were these dogs that attacked us, what clan.”

  “They did murder, laird. That was their intent. He was cloaked in a black mantle, with a hood that covered his head and blotted out light from reaching his face. He was naught more than a wraith on a black horse.”

  “Well, you marked him good. Mayhap we shall soon have the chance to root him out.” The laird signaled his group was ready to pull out. The man’s bay fell in beside Eiry, who accepted the presence of the other horse. “Blessing from the Auld Ones that you happened upon us, Sasunnach. I would say words of thanks, but you surely ken you have those. That skill you have with the bow saved us.”

  “What are you doing on Coinnleir Wood? Would your attackers know of you being in that pass?” Fletcher questioned.

  The old man turned to the side in the saddle and studied him. “Mayhap not ken the timing, but there are plenty who have knowledge I would be coming to fetch my daughter.”

  Fletcher blinked. “Geljon? You are Geljon’s father?”

  For a long moment, the laird of Seacrest continued to stare at him. Fletcher felt a flush of heat flood his face, but was not sure if it were noticeable. Could her sire read his feelings for Geljon upon his countenance?

  The laird nodded. “It seems I shall have a lot to ponder upon when I reach Coinnleir Wood.

  ****

  Fletcher watched as the double doors to the Great Hall of Coinnleir Wood opened, and David Leslie stalked in, flanked by his men-at-arms. Wearing studded leather jacks, they were a hard-bitten bunch. Claymores were carried, slung across their backs, and broadswords hung from sheaths at their hips. The Tanist’s stare first fell on Fletcher, then shifted to Damian, and finally to the man sitting half in the shadows by the hearth. Though his eyes widened, no thoughts were revealed in their ginger depths.