His Border Bride

by Blythe Gifford

  Fitzjohn was the only one she watched.

  Each of them had a thin, round stick that fitted into a board with a hole carved into it. Crouched over it, he put his boot on the end of the board to hold it steady, then placed the stick in the hole and, palm on either side of the stick, rubbed it back and forth. A nest of dry tinder, nearby, was ready to catch the spark.

  She held her breath. A few wisps of smoke drifted up from the point where stick met board. Drifted, then disappeared.

  Concentration creased Gavin’s brow, but unlike the others, his face held not worry, but a smile.

  Wisps of smoke drifted from his board.

  While the rest still frantically rolled their sticks, he picked up the little scoop that had caught the embers and blew on it, softly.

  Another man, at about the same place, was so excited he blew his embers across the grass where the precious heat was lost and he was forced to begin again.

  But Gavin kept the now-glowing spark steady in his left hand, picked up the mouse nest of dry grass, and dumped the burning brands into it. Then, he blew on the grass, breath gentle as a feather.

  Everyone else stopped to watch, knowing he would be first or they could all start over again. The dry grass glowed.

  A flame erupted.

  A cheer, some handclaps, fluttered through the crowd.

  Gavin walked to the waiting bonfire pit and touched the flame to the wood shavings on the edge. They were slow to light.

  Angus ran to him and held out a torch soaked in pine pitch that would catch more easily than the wood.

  Gavin, immobile, stared at it, silent.

  Then, carefully, he held out the flaming nest. The torch lit and the last of the dry grass was burned away.

  He dropped it into the fire pit as Angus lit the other fire.

  But he stared into the flames a long time before he turned away.

  ‘Well, my boy,’ her father said, loudly, as the crowd dispersed. ‘Who would you like as a companion for the evening?’

  He blinked, as if just awakened, and lifted his head. ‘Why, Mistress Clare, of course. If she would do me the honour.’

  Chapter Ten

  Alain’s hand tightened on her arm.

  Gavin strolled over and took her other hand in his, pressing a kiss on her fingers. ‘Demoiselle.’

  His accent was perfect.

  Rage masked Alain’s face. ‘You do not deserve her.’

  Gavin’s courtly manners did not falter. ‘Au contraire, mon ami. If you refuse to join the combat, you cannot claim the prize.’

  ‘I will speak with you later,’ she whispered to Alain, before he stomped away.

  Fitzjohn’s hand cupped her waist. Her father’s knowing smile as they walked by was fuelled by more than ale.

  She stepped away from Fitzjohn’s hand. ‘You and Alain, you both speak as if I were a prize instead of a person.’

  ‘You wanted to be a knight’s lady. And for a knight, winning the lady is the symbol of his prowess. He plays the game of love against his fellows, as well as the game of war.’

  ‘I thought you did not believe that war was a chivalric game.’

  ‘I don’t.’ He looked at her. ‘And neither is love.’

  The bonfire’s flames cast light and shadow across his face. She saw a war in his eyes, war between a desire to believe in goodness and the knowledge of the darkness in his own soul.

  And hers.

  She tried to back away from his too-knowing look, but the gentle hand on her waist turned hard.

  ‘If you want to play at love,’ she said, ‘I don’t know why you would select me.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ There was a world in those two words. They spoke of more than her father’s wishes. They spoke of his own.

  And just for a moment, she was wanted to learn his heart. Not just what people said of him, but the secrets no one knew.

  No. There would be no sharing of those. For then he would demand hers in return.

  ‘I’m a lady, Fitzjohn. And you’re a rogue.’

  ‘I can’t help my birth.’

  ‘I do not speak only of your parents. You’re a schemer who expects to have your way in everything.’

  ‘Well, that just proves you don’t know me very well. Yet.’

  ‘I know you well enough. You’re too much like my father.’

  ‘Why, thank you for the compliment, Mistress Clare. He’s a wonderful man.’

  ‘To you.’

  ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’

  ‘Not since I was eight.’ That was when she had given up on him.

  Or he had given up on her. When her mother died, he didn’t hold or comfort a frightened, lonely child. He sent her across the sea to strangers and took another woman into his bed and another daughter on to his knee.

  ‘That’s a large decision to make so quickly.’

  ‘Now that I’m grown, it takes me less time. I judged you as soon as I saw your cold, blue eyes.’

  She had glimpsed a perilous mixture there. Incredible lightness hiding shadows as dark as her own.

  ‘You’ve judged the colour right, at least.’

  ‘You said I was a good judge of character.’ She pulled away from him, fighting temptation. ‘Well, I judge you to be ruthless and dangerous, and I want nothing to do with you.’

  She lied and he knew it. Too close and she would crave his kiss all over again.

  ‘You want a marriage of money and a bedmate, Fitzjohn. I want more.’ Her voice shook as she remembered, belatedly, that chivalric romance was to be saved for illicit relationships, not to be expected from a husband. ‘I want a life away from this wilderness.’ Away from the wildness in her soul. ‘Neither you nor my father appreciate that world.’

  ‘You talk a lot about what kind of man and what kind of life you want to get. What are you willing to give to this marriage of fantasies?’

  ‘Why, everything, of course.’ Or everything a man should want. There would always be a part held back. The part she had buried, or tried to. The desires that took over her body late at night. Those, even a husband must not know. ‘I would give all that I am.’

  ‘Mistress Clare, you don’t even know all that you are.’ His lips hovered too close to hers, stirring those dark urges, the feelings she must never confess, even to herself.

  Alain never raised those feelings. With Alain, she was safe.

  But she was not with Alain, she was with Gavin, with Gavin on Beltane, a night to pray for fertility, and her body wanted to give the ancient, sinful answer.

  If she closed her eyes, could she be like the blinded birds, unable to fear what could not be seen?

  She lowered her gaze and leaned closer.

  ‘Demoiselle Clare?’

  She pulled away, stumbling, at the sound of Alain’s voice. What had he seen? She smoothed her skirt as if Fitzjohn had rumpled her clothes. As if something had happened.

  It hadn’t, of course, but worse, she had wanted it to.

  ‘Demoiselle Clare, I think you have wasted enough of your evening on this man. I have come to take you back.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’ And she took her first deep breath, as Alain led her away, refusing to look at Gavin for fear he would call her back.

  How much would you give? She was so ready to give herself to Alain. A lady would never push a man, never raise the question herself, yet she must.

  Now. Or her father would force her to be the bastard’s bride.

  ‘Alain, it is time…’ She paused, leaning against a boulder. Higher on the hill, twin bonfires still roared. The cattle were being driven between them as protection for the coming year. ‘There are…I am…’ She could scarce get words to form.

  ‘Chérie, what is wrong? Did he bother you?’

  ‘No. No!’ A lie, but Alain must have no doubts of her. ‘Not that.’

  ‘Then what is it? Can I help?’ He touched her cheek, gently, and met her eyes.

  But in the dim light, she saw no hunger there.
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br />   She tried to smile. ‘I must say some things and I don’t even know how to begin.’

  ‘How can it be difficult when we have spoken of so many things?’

  So many things. Him. His home. His exploits. His preferences in food. His opinions on falconry. Had they ever talked of her? She couldn’t remember. ‘We’ve talked of many things, Alain, but never of the future.’

  His face looked blank. And a bit uncomfortable. ‘Future?’

  ‘L’avenir,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Plans. Hopes. Dreams.’ She dropped her head. ‘This is too difficult. I can’t.’

  He put a finger on her chin and lifted her head. ‘Speak of l’avenir, chérie.’

  She searched his eyes. Calm. Comforting. Without rough edges. Without pain.

  Without passion.

  ‘Alain, I’d like you to speak of it. You’ve been here for more than a year. We’ve spoken, ridden, talked, walked, spent time and company together. And I have come to expect, that is, I thought that you had feelings for me. Do you have feelings for me?’

  He dropped his hand and leaned away. ‘Bien sur. Of course.’

  This was wrong. All wrong. It was the knight who should be on his knees, professing his lovesick devotion. ‘What kind of feelings?’

  He looked at her as if she were a dog who had leaked against his leg. Loved, perhaps, but one who had committed an awkward, inconvenient, embarrassing act. ‘Respect. Admiration.’ He shrugged. The silver tongue tarnished.

  Such words. Full of pity. Did he recognise what she was doing? ‘Is that all?’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Is that the extent of your feelings?’

  ‘Feelings. A difficult word to understand.’

  ‘Tendresse.’

  ‘My feelings for you are all that is appropriate.’

  ‘Feelings enough to ask me to be your wife?’

  He blinked, like a deer, seeing the hunter’s arrow but unable to move.

  She knew, then, what his answer would be. She should have known when his eyes met hers. Kind, but distant. Never really seeing beyond the surface.

  And until Gavin Fitzjohn plundered her with a glance, she had not known the difference.

  He coughed and cleared his throat. ‘Ma femme?’

  Such a question. As if he had never considered it before. As if she were feeble-minded for misunderstanding. Well, she was beyond humiliation now. She had no more to lose. She would make it his turn to suffer and squirm.

  ‘Yes. Your wife. Did you know my husband will have the tower and these lands, as long as he can hold them?’

  ‘But you knew, of course, that I must return to France.’

  Yes, she was enjoying it now. She would press him, press both of them, to the embarrassing and bitter end. ‘Oh, yes. France is a second home to me, as you well know.’

  ‘But there is more, an alliance there, my family…’ He stumbled over what used to be smooth phrases. ‘Surely you understood…’

  ‘Une alliance.’ Her words were a whisper. ‘Of course, I knew.’ She straightened her shoulders, unable to face her shame any longer. ‘I wanted to be sure there was no misunderstanding that you, that you and I…’ She looked away, into the sky, wishing she could fly as far away as her falcon could soar.

  And then, she would turn, dive down from the sky, and rip out his eyes with her talons.

  The thought gave her strength. ‘No misunderstanding about our…future, because my father, you see…’

  ‘Ah, votre père.’ He sighed, relieved. ‘Oui, je comprends. Awkward. Gauche, n’est pas?’

  Her dear, well-meaning father. Brimming with bluster, if missing some manners.

  And Alain dismissed him with one word.

  ‘I know it has been difficult, night after night.’ Her dear, determined father, who wanted grandsons so badly that he would sacrifice his feelings, put aside his doubts about the man his daughter wanted in order to force him into her bedchamber to produce them.

  It was love, in a strange way.

  ‘I did not intend to mislead,’ Alain said. ‘You are sweet, graceful, intelligent. And your behaviour so perfect, never suggesting…’

  Oh, how she had wanted to. How she had wanted to grab him and shake him, so many times, and say kiss me, love me, marry me. Instead, she had behaved perfectly because she was afraid of losing him.

  And had lost him anyway.

  ‘I’m so glad we talked, Alain, and that you agree we have no future. It would indeed have been awkward, for you to ask me to be your wife.’ No reason to hide her feelings. No need to watch each word. ‘I am like the finest of peregrines, you see, and I need a worthy falconer. And you, I think, are no better than a cadger.’

  She left him there, walking away with her head high and her eyes wide, hoping the wind would dry her tears before they fell.

  Days, months had slipped away, wasted. And the fault was hers, not his. She had had no mother to whisper in her ear and warn her of the man’s true feelings. All the time that she had been pining after Alain, she was so stupid that she couldn’t even tell he had no interest in her.

  How could she trust herself to judge any man?

  Full darkness had fallen. Dancers around the flickering bonfires cast strange shadows. Clare could face none of them.

  Her father tapped his toes as he watched them, Murine snuggled against his side.

  Clare averted her eyes.

  ‘Daughter!’ he called out.

  She kept walking, to no avail. He caught up with her. ‘I saw you with Alain. Is it settled?’

  She gazed up at the moonless sky, knowing she would cry if she faced his hopeful eyes. ‘Yes, it’s settled.’

  ‘Really?’ Astonishment and disappointment mingled in the word. ‘You’ve surprised me, daughter. I never thought. In fact, I had hoped…’ He let the words fall away.

  She turned, feeling her fury rise. Her moment of understanding and sympathy had gone. If he had not pressured her, she would never have asked, never have been so humiliated.

  ‘You had hoped what? That I would prefer a fire-starting bastard to one of the most chivalrous knights of the realm? I do not. But I discovered the knight did not prefer me.’ Anger clogged her throat and she wasn’t sure whether it was directed at Alain or her father or herself. ‘I’m just a foolish lass who’s been pining over a man who has done nothing but dally with me to while away the boredom. And I, like an idiot, did not see it.’

  ‘What are you sayin’, lass?’

  She took a breath. ‘I am saying that Alain will not, and never intended to, marry me.’

  Wrath cracked the crags of his face. ‘I’ll kill him. I’ll—’

  She grabbed his rough sleeves. ‘No, you won’t. I won’t let you make it any worse than it already is.’

  His arms went around her then, and she felt the quick rub of rough wool against her cheek. ‘I’m sorry, lass.’

  She bit her lip against the tears. He had never been so kind to her before. ‘Don’t. Please. I canna bear it.’

  He pulled away, straightening his shoulders. ‘Then it will be the other.’

  ‘You can’t mean it.’ She had prayed that Fitzjohn had been only a threat, a way to force Alain to action. She waved her hands towards the men and women, raucous around the fire. ‘They will never accept him as their lord.’

  ‘They’ll come around.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You will if I say so. Have you no consideration for your father?’

  ‘I’ve all the consideration that you have for me.’ How could she trust anything at all? Alain, her father, Fitzjohn—for each of them, she was no more than a means to an end. ‘What about what I want?’

  ‘Enough. It will be the other. Prepare for it. I’ll go tell him.’

  ‘No,’ she said, surprised by how quiet and firm the word was. ‘Wait.’

  Reeling from the blow, she had not fully faced what Alain’s rejection would mean. She was trapped in this hilly wasteland. She could refuse her father, but wha
t would it gain? He would choose again. Another try, another man, a stranger, perhaps not even a knight. Someone with a strong arm and weak manners who had never even seen life beyond these hills.

  Fitzjohn, at least, understood hawking.

  ‘I am the one who will be his wife,’ she said, drawing her first clear breath since Alain’s betrayal. ‘I will tell him.’

  She wanted to see Gavin’s eyes when he learned his fate. She hoped she could trust what she saw.

  ‘Do it quickly, girl.’

  Now that the fires were safely lit and blazing, they let the younger lads practise with the sticks and boards so they might some day be starters. She found Gavin with Angus huddled over a board. Intent on the speed of his stick, the boy let Gavin guide his hands, showing him how to rub the stick more smoothly.

  He looked up and met her eyes. Was there hope in his when he turned to see her? She couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I must speak with you,’ she said, and turned away, certain he would follow.

  Chapter Eleven

  Clare dipped a small torch to the fire and, silent, led him halfway down the hill, stopping when they reached the barmkin surrounding the Tower. Behind them, the twin bonfires licked the sky, but they were beyond the sight of the revellers.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Mistress Clare?’

  She held her torch at an angle so it would not drip hot pitch on her fingers. ‘You can call me Clare from now on, Gavin.’ Gavin. She had never used his name.

  He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Oh? And why would you allow me such a privilege?’

  ‘As a husband, it will be your prerogative. In fact, I think a husband can call his wife anything he wants.’

  ‘A husband?’ His smile disappeared, replaced by a look as intense as that of the falcon fixed on her prey.

  ‘That’s right. You have won the prize. Received the day’s laurel from the lady’s hand. In fact—’ she laughed, because if she didn’t, she would cry ‘—you have received the lady’s hand itself. And everything that goes with it.’

  Emotions chased each other across his eyes behind the flames, so fast she couldn’t catch them. Was that one disbelief? Wonder? Lust?