by K. E. Saxon
His page’s spine straightened and his chin lifted. ‘Twas clear no one had ever given the lad such a responsibility before, due to his young age, and now he relished the duty. “Aye, you have my vow,” he said, his voice holding a shadow of the future authority it would bear as an adult.
“Let us clasp hands on it then to seal the vow.” Callum thrust his arm out toward the lad and David did the same, each taking hold of the other’s hand in a tight grip.
* * *
Hours later, near midnight, Callum looked into the flame of one of the twelve 6-inch lit tapers he’d placed around the statue of Saint Quiricus in the chapel, measuring to that hallowed saint. As was the custom in battles such as these, he’d be here the remainder of the night, praying and readying his mind for the coming battle. ‘Twas the custom as well to fast the night before, and he’d done that as well, not joining his family at the evening meal, but instead spending his time in his chamber going over his mail to make sure there were no chinks in the armor he’d missed that needed fixing before the battle, and cleaning and sharpening his sword and dirk as well.
David, tho’ still a page, had wanted to shine his armor for him, but he’d not allowed it, wanting—needing—instead to be the one to tend his old, faithful friend this night.
He’d spent a bit of time with his destrier as well, brushing it down and looking him over one last time to make sure he was in readiness. The stallion had been given a treat of apples before he was led back to his stall.
By this time tomorrow, with God’s will, he’d be once again in the arms of his love. And that Norman usurper, blonde meddler of bairns, would be wrapped tight in his death shroud and away from this place.
* * *
“I saw your lady, sir, with the Norman this day past,” David told Callum just a bit past dawn the next morn as he walked beside him toward the stables. Callum had bathed, eaten, and been aided by Daniel and Bao in putting his armor on these two hours past, and now ‘twas time for David to lead the warhorse onto the lists.
Callum’s head swivelled around so quickly, he got a sharp twinge in his neck. “Where? Where did you see the Norman?”
“In the forest. I was with two of the MacGregor hunters.” He cocked his head to the side as he looked up at him “Why did she meet him? Is he not our enemy?”
“‘Twas not my lady you saw, I trow. ‘Twas some other lass of similar height and build, no doubt.”
“Aye, ‘twas the lady Branwenn we saw. The wind blew the hood from her cloak and we saw clearly ‘twas her that met the Norman.”
Callum’s brows slammed together and his eyes narrowed. “For how long did they meet?”
David shrugged. “I know not for how long they’d been there by the time we espied them, but they left soon after.”
Callum’s jaw relaxed. “Hmmm. ‘Tis most likely that Branwenn was caught unawares by the bast—ahem—fiend.” He lifted a brow at David. “So, she was not, umm, bothered by the man in any way? She made it safely back to the keep?”
“Well...he...”—he shrugged again—“he grabbed hold of her hand and kissed it.”
Callum gritted his teeth. “And that was all?”
“Aye. Then she turned and fled. But the other hunters said she’d no doubt cuckolded you, just as Lara had done.” He tipped his head to the side. “Who is Lara? What does ‘cuckold’ mean?”
Callum ground his teeth and halted, facing the lad. Ignoring the first part of his question, he answered the second. “She did not cuckold me—and you’ll find out when you are older.” He resumed his pace. After a moment he asked, “So she was unharmed? You saw her after, at the keep?”
David nodded. “Aye, she was at supper last eve.”
The vise around his lungs fell free. “Well, then.” He ruffled the lad’s hair lightly with his gloved hand. “No real harm was done, I trow.” Tho’, when this trial was over, and if he’d won the day, he’d ask her about the matter.
* * *
CHAPTER 16
The day was crisp and clear that bright November morn, the air thick with the hush of the crowd in the stands, the scent of stirred-up sand and horse flesh filling Callum’s nostrils.
He was already sweating. So much so, that he could feel his undergarments clinging to his frame under the padding and heavy mail.
He stood next to his restless steed at the far end of the lists looking directly ahead into the closed visor of the helmeted Norman devil, who, two days past, had become his worst enemy. Today, there would be no quarter given; no rules of conduct on which to adhere. Nay, ‘twas no sport they were about this day, but a trial with a deadly purpose, from which one—or both—of them would not walk away. His destrier redistributed its weight, causing its own body armor to make a chinking sound in the deadly silence.
Bao and Daniel stood a bit away, acting as his attendants.
The Norman had attendants as well; strangers, no doubt acquired with Norman coin for this trial.
The marshal moved to the center of the field, taking the place of the herald, who’d called out “Do your duty” three times a few moments ago to solicit the two combatants out onto the field from their pavilions. Facing the bishop, the marshal lifted his arm, his hand fisted about a white glove. With a swift downward arc, he threw the glove through the air, shouting the first of the triumvirate command, “Let them go!”
Before the glove had settled lightly upon the remaining hoarfrost, Callum and his nemesis were on their steeds; their attendants shoving their lances and shields into their hands.
Once the lances rested upright in their feuters, the two combatants’ attendants leapt back, and then each man spurred his horse forward.
Callum directed his gaze only on his opponent; all sound from the spectators became some vague part of the background as his mind focused solely on the man ahead of him and the task before him.
He spurred his destrier and charged forward, advancing down the field toward the Norman.
Gaiallard lowered his lance and did the same, running directly at him.
With no tilt-fence running down the center to guide the horses, Callum propelled himself forward in as straight a line as he was able so that his steed would not collide into his opponents; for, ‘twas paramount that he retain his seat as long as possible.
The distance between them was closed in mere seconds, their lances glancing off the other’s wooden shield.
Thrice more they charged at each other with fresh lances given them by their attendants, and thrice more their wooden shafts met some portion of the other man’s armor with a tremendous clangor.
* * *
Branwenn sat perfectly still, every muscle in her being, tensed. Her mien blank of all emotion, she watched the horror before her. She sat inside the family’s spectator’s box, at one end of the same bench occupied by the other ladies and Chalmers.
Alyson had declined watching the trial, so was not present.
Chalmers sat at the other end of the bench with his wife, her hand clasped in his and resting on his thigh.
With every crashing blow of the lances against helmet or shield, Branwenn fought her body’s reaction to cringe or jump, her throat’s desire to gasp or cry out, as she worried that she somehow might distract Callum with any overt reaction on her part.
She’d remained awake praying all night, much as her love had done, and her eyes were gritty and red-rimmed from lack of sleep. But the loss of sleep was naught compared to the loss she might have later, if all did not go in their favor. Please, Lord, let it go in our favor. Do not forsake us, Lord!
She’d had no contact with Callum since the dawn prior, knowing that he needed some time with Laire and David, as well as time to mentally prepare for this trial.
When she’d first seen him this morn as he’d come out on the field, her heart had skipped a beat. For never in her life had she seen a man look so purposeful, so set on his path, as Callum was at that moment.
And ‘twas all for her. He was risking his life for her.
And there was still a place inside her that felt undeserving of such devotion from such a one as he.
But mostly, she just felt fortunate. Fortunate to have been his love, even if it turned out that their lives together would be cut short. For, ‘twas a blessing, she continued to remind herself, that she’d known that kind of love at all.
With numb fingers she stroked the smooth stones in the filet on her head. She’d worn it for him—and her lavender wedding gown as well. Just a small token—a loving message—of support.
Callum had only scanned the spectator’s box once upon arriving on the field, but she knew he’d seen, and understood, her message, for he’d given a brief nod in her direction before turning to face his opponent.
* * *
Both Callum and Gaiallard took a moment to rest at his own end of the field.
Then, bracing their shields, they spurred their mounts, and once again advanced on their opponent.
After two more tries, one in which they each struck the other’s helmet so hard that sparks flew off the shiny metal, Callum at last succeeded in giving Gaiallard an almost killing blow.
The sharp end of his lance broke through the other man’s shield and tore into Gaiallard’s left shoulder, rending both flesh and cartilage.
The sound of the clash echoed off the stone walls surrounding the lists and the force of the blow unseated both combatants.
“You whoreson, I’ll kill you for that!” Gaiallard bellowed.
“You shall try!” Callum replied with as much force.
Then, both rising to their feet, they faced off before the bishop’s box, circling each other, their swords raised.
“Worry not, boy,” Gaiallard said, “for I shall take good care of your land after I wed your widow. And I shall use the coin from your bride price to build a fortress upon it, as there shall be no need to give it to the Welsh prince now.”
“Norman dog!” Callum growled and propelled himself forward, swinging his sword in a wide arc towards his opponent’s neck. “You shall never wed her, nor have any portion of my property!”
Gaiallard brought his shield up to block the blow, swinging his own sword at the same time. It hit and glanced off of Callum’s shield.
For the next tense moments, the two men swung, thrust, and parried.
The winter sun glinted off one of the amethysts in Branwenn’s filet, making a purple-hued spectrum trip and glide over Callum’s visor.
He glanced up.
Gaiallard lunged forward. “Ha-ha!” he cried, driving his sword into Callum’s thigh. Blood shot from the wound and ran down his leg.
“Aargh!” Callum struggled to remain standing, and conscious, as his mind fogged from the dizzying effect of the instant massive loss of blood.
“‘Tis my coup de grâce, this,” Gaiallard told him, “my leaving a mark just here—a reminder before you die of the patch that the lovely Branwenn sports so prettily in much the same place.”
Knowing he’d given his opponent a killing blow—that he’d lose blood too quickly now to fight for long, to live for long, Gaiallard withdrew his sword and stood, swaying to and fro as he faced his nemesis, with the intent to taunt him a bit more before thrusting his sword through his heart.
Callum struggled to focus. With every heartbeat, a font of blood spurted from the wound in a scarlet arc into the air. The Norman was telling him something, but he could not concentrate on the words. His only thought was to overcome this lethargy as quickly as he could and pounce once more on his nemesis.
“Did you know she met me in the wood this day past? That she sucked my cock dry? That I gave her such a tongue lashing her cunt actually spurted?” Gaiallard’s upper torso tilted forward a bit as a high-pitched ringing began in his ears. He shook free the dizzying effect and laughed. “And then I fucked her. Twice. What a tight little cunt she has—and that freckle!” He spread his feet wider apart in an attempt to gain his balance. “She did it for you, she swore. She wanted me to leave the two of you be; to release her from her betrothal contract.” He laughed again. “I, being no fool, took what she offered before reversing my promise.”
Callum’s vision began to blur as a black mist rose along the periphery of his sight, and tho’ he saw the Norman’s lips moving, the roaring in his ears and his determination to finish this thing, prevented his comprehension of the words. But he’d needed the reprieve his opponent had given him to rest and regain some strength. He blinked away the black mist and took a step forward, but his leg wouldn’t hold him. “Christ’s Bones!” He fell to his knees.
Gaiallard staggered forward and stood swaying above him as, with both hands on the hilt, he lifted his sword high in the air.
* * *
“Godamercy.” Chalmer’s shoulders slumped. “That’s it then,” he said, his voice bleak. “The battle is all but won by the Norman fiend.”
Maggie gripped tight to her husband’s hand, leaning forward to see her son more clearly. “Nay, it cannot be! He will rally!”
With a trembling hand, Lady Maclean swiped at her tear-streaked face using the small square of linen she kept tucked in her sleeve. “Aye, he shall—”
Branwenn jumped to her feet and fled.
“Branwenn!”
She ignored the older woman’s exclamation of her name, blind to all as she flew down the steps of the box. She could not watch him die. She could not. In a matter of seconds she was outside the walls surrounding the field.
The sound of a collective gasp from the spectators filled the air and she bit back a groan of despair as she hiked up her skirts and dashed toward the keep.
He was dead, or as good as. Her love was dead. And her brothers would battle the Norman knight in the same manner if she didn’t leave forthwith. ‘Twas time to follow through with her plan.
It didn’t take long for her to reach her chamber. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it. “Callum,” she whispered at last, her pain deeper than tears.
Dry-eyed and determined, she pushed herself away from the door and walked over to stand before her clothing chest. Slowly, she opened the lid and began to pack. She’d take only the few garments she came with; she couldn’t bear to be reminded of any of her time here. The filet and rings—both hers and her mother’s—she’d wrap up and take with her, however, for the babe she now carried beneath her broken heart. His babe. The one he’d tried so hard not to place inside her. Her head flew up. The babe! He knew naught of the babe. She must tell him now, before he takes his last breath.
She turned and flew out the door and down the passageway. With tripping tread, she rushed down the stairs. At the second landing, she stopped short.
Nay, she shouldn’t tell him. For she could not give him the last painful blow that he left a babe behind as well.
But, aye, she should. She started her flight once more. Then Callum’s last thoughts would be of the sweet consequence of their undying love for one another. Their beautiful, wonderful babe.
She would do this thing, tell him of his babe, be with him as his soul left this world. She was his wife. ‘Twas her duty. She could do this.
Then, then she would leave. Afterward. Somehow.
* * *
Some inner reserve of strength and resolve revived Callum in time to parry the blow the Norman would have given him. Gaiallard stumbled backward, giving him time to rise to his feet once more.
Callum forced his leg to hold him, staggering forward, toward his opponent. And then, with every ounce of might he still retained, he swung his sword with so much force at Gaiallard’s head that it broke the lock and hinge on his helmet. The thing went flying.
Callum lunged and Gaiallard fell backward, bringing Callum with him to the ground. The iron-ore stench of blood filled Callum’s nostrils, so strong he tasted it, reviving him even further. This was a fight to the death, and neither he, nor his opponent, was dead. Yet.
They began to wrestle, rolling about on the hard, cold ground, each looking for an opportunity to skewer or slic
e the other through.
* * *
Alyson watched the action from the parapet of the stone wall that she hid behind. It overlooked the lists. Dressed in the drab brown woolen boy’s clothing she’d been wearing to hunt in these past sennights, with her hair tucked under a cap, and her face smudged with the ash from the hearthfire, she brought the bow up, nocked her arrow, and set her sights on her enemy. She only prayed she’d not waited too long to send him to the fiery eternity he deserved; that Callum would survive the injury her brother had given him before she’d been able to sneak into position here.
* * *
Gaiallard rolled on top of his opponent and arced his sword arm back. With a driving force, he brought the weapon down onto Callum’s helmeted head.
The clash of steel on steel resounded inside Callum’s helmet, and all around them. His strength waning, ‘twas only his desire to save his bride from this fiend that drove him forward. His fingers numb, but his resolve firm, he wrested his dirk from its sheath as the other man continued his pummeling blows to his head. As Gaiallard swung his arm back for the last time, Callum pressed his advantage, swinging his arm forward, the blade in precise line to his opponent’s jugular.
In the same instant that Callum’s dagger slid into Gaiallard’s throat, an arrow went with perfect accuracy, directly into the man’s right eye.
The Norman died instantly, his heavy weight falling forward onto Callum. He only had time to roll the Norman off of him before darkness descended.
* * *
‘Twas as if he was rising up through the fluid, silent depths of a deep, Cimmerian abyss. Words echoed eerily inside his mind, but he knew not whose voices the words belonged to.
“Will he live?” was repeated more than once. And, “Aye, if our Lord wills it,” as well.
Callum tried to open his eyes, but his lids would not cooperate. After a time, his energy exhausted, he drifted once more into the benighted void of dreamless sleep.
* * *
Callum awoke to the feel of a cool hand on his brow. His eyelids seemed as heavy as portcullis gates. ‘Twas a struggle, but he at last was able to lift them far enough to see who was tending him.