Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03]

by The Sword Maiden

  "Aye, and headed home. But I came here to Perth to find you before I go north to Kintail. How long have you been here in Perth?" Aleck peered at him. "You look terrible."

  "Trust a physician to be blunt. Sit down." Lachlann gestured toward the bench opposite him. Aleck sat, his back to the busy inn. Lachlann preferred his own back to the wall. "I have been here much of the summer," Lachlann said. "I did not see you after... Jehanne was imprisoned in Rouen." He said it mildly, though he felt the weight of the words.

  "I rode with the campaigns in northern France longer than I expected. I thought you would stay in that monastery hospital for months to recover from your injuries."

  "A Scotsman heals better in Scotland," Lachlann said.

  "The duke of Argyll ordered me sent home with some other Scots, but I went to Rouen first."

  "Did you see Jehanne? The angel herself? Pray God, I hope you had that chance."

  Lachlann frowned, gazed at his cup. "I did. And I sent a message to you to say that I would take a ship out of Nantes in April."

  "I never got it. France is in such upheaval now that 'tisna surprising the message was lost. But I am glad to find you here, and hearty."

  "Hearty enough," Lachlann muttered, and sipped from his cup.

  "My ship docked in Leith a few days ago. A sergeant at the king's castle here in Perth told me you could be found at this place every evening." Aleck glanced around. "I thought you would have gone home to Argyll to start your blade-smithing forge. You spoke often of doing so."

  "I did not count on an injured eye—'tis hardly an advantage for a bladesmith. Once my knight service was fulfilled, I decided to stay here and work at the castle smithy—shoeing horses, repairing weapons and armor, making nails. I can do ironwork well enough." He shrugged. "Summon the serving girl if you want food or drink. Meggott is her name. She likes coin and courtesy well." He beckoned to the girl.

  Although the small inn was not the most popular in Perth, Lachlann was a frequent customer. The place was clean, and the innkeeper was honest enough. And Meggott was especially generous with Lachlann; she often invited him up to her room after the tavern closed at night.

  Meggott came toward them, her wide hips and creamy shoulders swaying. Lachlann inclined his head to show his interest. His body, familiar with her warm curves and warmer recesses, craved her out of habit. He had spent hours in her passionate, eager company, but he had kept his heart distant.

  And new ale dimmed life nicely, he had learned, though he never drank to idiocy. He had a dulling of the vision in one eye; a little dulling of the memory to go with it was welcome.

  Aleck asked for ale and food, and Lachlann lifted his own cup, using a smith's penchant for gestures over words. Meggott smiled coyly and poured ale for both men, tipping the frosted belly of the jug against her full breasts. Her dark hair slid over her shoulder, and her body swayed, posing a question for Lachlann, offering an invitation.

  He answered with a meaningful lift of his brow. Tonight he might seek oblivion again. Her ebony hair brushed his shoulder, and he remembered another dark-haired girl, not coy and round, but lean, bold, and graceful, with kisses like sweet fire.

  He knew why he went to Meggott's bed, and he did not like himself for it. Eva haunted his dreams—eyes like the heart of a storm, and kisses he could not forget. God knew he had tried.

  Ever since he had learned what had happened to Eva and her kin, he had felt conflicted. Haunted. Upon his arrival in Perth, he soon heard about the king's betrayal of the Highland chiefs at Inverness three years earlier. Iain MacArthur was dead, his clan disbanded and forfeited. The shock had struck Lachlann like a blow; he had listened, stunned, to the reports of outlaws in the hills above Loch Fhionn, led by Simon MacArthur, who now rebelled against the crown.

  He was sure that his foster mother was safe, for she had no blood ties to the MacArthurs. Months earlier, he had sent her a message telling her of his arrival, and to say that he would remain in Perth for a while to do smithing work for the king.

  In truth, he remained because he had heard another rumor: the daughter of the deceased MacArthur chief had betrothed to a Campbell chieftain, a royal ambassador who had been in France. Colin Campbell's name was bitterly familiar to Lachlann, and while in France he had heard that the man had come to the French court. He assumed that the marriage would be made by now.

  That, more than any other reason, kept him in Perth. He took a swift drink, smacked the cup down again. His head spun. Good, he thought.

  "Potent stuff," Aleck commented, after sipping the ale.

  "Besides cleanliness and the ever-willing Meggott, this fine brew brings me back to this inn," Lachlann drawled.

  Meggott brought Aleck stewed meat and onions on a bread trencher. Lachlann wiggled the cup he held, and she filled it. She was all blush and bosom, but he did not love her—could not. Though he willingly played lusty games with her, their lovemaking felt hollow to him.

  Passion and emotion were limited now to the kick of the ale, the lush thunder of the girl at night, the hot red glow of the iron he worked each day. Small surface thrills, allowing him to ignore the ache within: Eva had not waited, and his heart felt sundered.

  Aleck was staring at him. Lachlann began to drink, but he did not want it. He was not sure what he wanted. He pushed the cup away. "You didna come from France only to find me," he said.

  Aleck ate a little, paused to answer. "My knight service is fulfilled, as is yours." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "How is it you left the king's guard for town smithing?"

  Lachlann waggled his fingers. "My news isna so interesting. Tell me yours."

  "When do you mean to return to Argyll?"

  "I may not go back at all." Lachlann smoothed his fingers over a spill on the table. "Nor will I enlist in the king's army again. I am tired of hacking at strangers."

  Aleck pushed his soggy trencher away. "I, too. That French war was the most brutal a man could ever witness."

  "Brutal for women as well," Lachlann said with a sharp glance.

  "God rest her soul," Aleck murmured. "But I find some peace in knowing that we were loyal friends to that extraordinary girl. Surely you feel that, too."

  "'Twas a rare privilege to ride as one of the Scots guards to Jehanne the Maid," Lachlann said. "But if I had my way, she would still be alive to harry the Goddams—the English." He huffed a sad laugh, remembering her feisty name for the enemy, and remembering her remarkable spirit and devotion to her cause.

  "She had complete faith in her voices, even to the end. Her saints promised her salvation, but she thought it would be... of an earthly nature." Aleck sighed heavily. "So you were able to see her in Rouen?"

  "Briefly, during the trials. I was allowed into her cell with some others. She was... forlorn. Half-starved, filthy. And still spitting fire, still stubborn, still devoted to her voices and to her mission. Some said her faith flagged toward the end, but I did not see that in her. We had some private words." He sighed, shook his head. "Jehannette is gone. Dear God." He rubbed weary fingers over his face.

  "I was able to see her a few times myself. And I smuggled a priest into her cell to pray with her and shrive her in secret." Aleck frowned. "Her captors would not even allow her to be confessed."

  Lachlann nodded. "I am sure what you did meant a great deal to her."

  "You left France before the trial ended? Before...?"

  "I was on my way to Nantes when I heard the trials were concluded. I rode back, but I reached the city... too damned late." The ale had not done its work; he could still remember, all too clearly. He thought his voice might break. "It was over for her by the time I arrived, several days later."

  "We were not meant to witness that, or God would have placed us in that market square," Aleck said. "I am sure of it. Nothing her friends could have done would have saved her. What happened was God's will. It brings me some peace to know that she has found peace at last, and is with her angels."

  Lachlann closed his eyes,
stroked his fingers slowly over the lids. Lights flashed in his left eye, and his head whirled like a top, full of awful images and sounds. He had not witnessed her death, but he had heard many accounts of that day in Rouen. Too many.

  "Are your injuries healing well?" Aleck asked, watching him with a narrowed, concerned gaze.

  "Damned inconvenient to know a Scots knight who is also a physician," Lachlann grumbled. "The man asks too many questions." Aleck chuckled a little, and lifted his cup to drink, but Lachlann knew he waited for an answer to his medical query. "I am well enough, though I canna see properly in the left eye, as you know. But then, some of that may be new ale." He gave a careless shrug.

  "Your vision will never again be perfect, as I told you, and the sight in the left eye will diminish, but the right one is fine. There simply is no cure when a heavy blow to the head damages the sight. You are lucky to have survived, and fortunate to have your sight. But eye injuries can heal remarkably well. If you wish me to examine you again, I will. Perhaps there is some improvement."

  "Very little. What news do you have?" Lachlann demanded. "I canna linger here. The wench expects me in her room later. And you and I are done, I think, with our reminiscing." He said it harshly. "I dinna like to discuss my injury or my losses. 'Tis why I sit here in this damned tavern night after night—so I willna have to think about such things."

  "The hell," Aleck ground out. "What has happened to you? One of Jehanne's most trusted guards, one of her best swordsmen, one of the finest men I ever knew... drinking, wenching, and acting as if he doesna give a damn about life. But I know that man cares deeply."

  "Ah, her trusted guards. We kept her safe," Lachlann drawled. "She was taken at Compikgne under our very noses."

  "The gates were shut so fast, we couldna get to her before the Burgundians took her. None of her guard could help her. 'Twas a trap, and you know it. You were nearly killed defending her. I thought you would die from the injuries you took."

  "We all risked our lives trying to keep her safe. For what purpose? She was safely tried, safely imprisoned, safely murdered. Martyred, many say."

  "En nom de Dieu," Aleck hissed. Lachlann remembered it as Jehanne's most favored oath. "Do you think you are the only one to suffer grief over what happened?"

  "Nay," he said, and emitted a heavy sigh. His friend's words were like a cold rinse. "Nay. I dinna think so. And I realize there was naught else we could have done." He turned the cup in his hand. "Naught."

  "Then what grieves you so sore, man?"

  Lachlann paused. "Another matter," he finally said. "Something I learned about when I came back to Scotland."

  "News from home? The loss of a loved one, perhaps?"

  "In a way," Lachlann said carefully. "The loss of... the dream that kept me sane while I was in France. Kept me hoping." He shrugged. "No matter. I will survive that, too."

  Aleck scowled. "Well, whatever it is, you look awful—worse than when you were injured, somehow. Weary, beaten about the edges, surly as an old wolf in a cage. I have never known you to drink so much, or to talk so bitterly."

  Lachlann raised the empty cup and saluted him.

  "You will make yourself sick. Your cheeks are bloated, and your face is pale and shadowed. Hell, Lachlann. Town life suits you ill, and too much choler and melancholy will undermine a man's health. You have too strong a fiber to let drink and anger take you down."

  Lachlann scratched his whiskered chin. He could not remember the last time he had bought a shave, a bath, a hair trimming. Earlier in the day, he had seen his reflection in the dousing trough in the smithy. He looked like a wild man, his black hair and beard scruffy, his eyelids swollen. That view into the water had startled him. He had questioned himself, just as Aleck questioned him now.

  He spread his hands, long, well defined, and sinewy, the fingertips and nails grimed with iron and soot, though he had scrubbed them earlier. Sometimes he felt as if the blackness had seeped through his skin into his soul.

  "My advice, as your physician, is to water your ale, disdain beef and suet, and dine on vegetables and fish for a few weeks. And get more sleep, for God's sake. You look... haunted."

  "I am," Lachlann growled.

  "Do you need treatment for the eye, or the wounds and stitchings in your abdomen? You were fevered a long while, and that sort of illness and injury can weaken a man permanently. I can order packets of herbs from an apothecary. A few pinches added to wine every evening will help to heal and strengthen your spirit and your manhood, if you need it."

  "I am hearty enough. And Meggott can attest to the quality of my manhood. I am content. Leave me be."

  "You give up a chance to start your own weapons forge as you once dreamed, in favor of shoeing horses in a town smithy, drinking alone in taverns, and wenching. That is content?"

  Lachlann fixed him with a stare. "Dispense your message, and give me no more advice."

  Aleck leaned forward. "I came here to ask you something. The sword, man. Jehanne's sword. Do you still have it?"

  "Did you think I would lose it?" Lachlann growled. "She is dead, and her sword, once said to be magical and invincible, is broken. She admitted that at her trial when her judges asked what she had done with the sword Saint Catherine gave her. What does it matter where it is now?"

  "Jehanne told them it had broken, but she refused to say where it was, or that she had given it to you. Does anyone else know you have it?"

  Lachlann frowned thoughtfully. "After it broke at Lagny, Jehanne asked me to fix it. I told her it could not be done, at least not in the field over a fire, as I had repaired other weapons. She told me to keep it safe. I still have it."

  "Her persecutors fear the power of anything associated with her. A man could raise an army of zealots with that sword to stir them up."

  Something burst within him like a fireball. He slammed his fist on the table, and the cups wobbled. Aleck did not flinch. "She is gone," Lachlann growled. "They burned her for a heretic, though she was only a brave, foolhardy young girl. Her cause is gone with her! And I am done with fighting."

  "I know. I am too."

  "Aleck, I dinna even know what to do with the thing," Lachlann snarled. "That sad bit of steel. I canna even repair it well, with my eyesight as it is." He blew out a breath. He wanted a fresh drink, a new topic of conversation. His heart curled within him like a cinder. "Go. Leave me alone."

  "I ought to. You have become a foul-tempered beast. But I had to know if you still have the sword. Keep it, just as she wanted you to do. Protect it, for it is all that remains of her. And get away from this place. Take the sword into hiding."

  Lachlann slid him a dark glance. "I thank you for your concern, physician, and I will see to the payment for your meal. Luck to you on your journey."

  "Shall I wish you luck on a journey, then? I hoped to convince you to go back to Argyll."

  "To rebellion and strife?" Lachlann asked curtly. "Surely you heard about the execution of the chiefs, and the forfeitures and outlawing of so many Highland men."

  "I heard. There is much talk of it everywhere I go. They say the king will send troops to Loch Fhionn to stamp out the small rebellion there. Do you know the men who are involved in the raids and skirmishes near your own home?"

  "I do, if the reports I have heard are correct," Lachlann murmured. He looked into his cup. Still empty. "They say Simon MacArthur, brother to an imprisoned young chief, leads men in the hills above Loch Fhionn. I know both men, and likely I know Simon's rebels. There were MacArthurs with us in France, if you recall, who sailed home before I did."

  "More reason for your bitterness, then," Aleck observed shrewdly. "Your friends face real difficulties. If they move beyond local attacks, they invite trouble from the crown."

  "The king invited the trouble," Lachlann snapped, "when he executed twenty Highland chiefs at Inverness. I knew one of those men well. He did not deserve that fate."

  "The MacArthurs are not the only pocket of rebellion in the Highlands now,
as a consequence. We left France's war to return to a Highland war, courtesy of our king." Aleck watched Lachlann. "You may be able to help them if you go back."

  "I dinna care to embroil myself in a rebellion." Lachlann drew circles in a spill of ale. "I hear the MacArthur's daughter has married a Campbell. That alliance will help them better than anything I could do. There is no point in my returning."

  "You must protect Jehanne's sword, and you must think of your own well-being. A remote location is best for both matters. Start up your forge, as you always meant to do—and warn your friends. Tell them the king intends to destroy them if they continue their small rebellion."

  Lachlann pushed his fingers through his hair, thinking. "I suppose I could tell them what I have heard."

  "More than that, you could go to the king and offer to take a message to the rebels. You know the men and the area."

  Lachlann narrowed his eyes, studying the empty cup. He felt a new stirring of purpose. In the past year he had lost part of his vision, most of his hope, all of his dreams. For too long he had felt flat, as dark and cold as the iron he worked.

  At last he had a reason to return home, to his forge, to the place where he had grown to manhood. And he had a double quest now, if he wanted it: to hide and protect Jehanne's sword and to bring warning, perhaps even help, to the Mac Arthurs.

  But he would have to see Eva again, and he would feel obligated to pursue vengeance against her Campbell husband.

  Poor vision had ruined his ability to repair Jehanne's sword, and three grim years of war had made his need for revenge, once so hot, grow cool. But his feelings for Eva still simmered. He had tried to stop loving her, but he could no more do that than cease to breathe. He sat silently, brooding in his thoughts, while Aleck waited.

  Finally Aleck stood. "Well, you are a stubborn sod, so do what you will. I have said what I had to say, and I must go. A ship departs for Aberdeen at dawn tomorrow, and I have passage on it." He tossed a silver coin on the table.'