My Noble Knight

by Cynthia Breeding

  Turius studied her thoughtfully, his eyes penetrating as though to read her mind. She had the oddest sensation that he really was checking her out as a soldier and not a mere female. She was even more determined to shoot.

  “Nae.” Angus stepped forward, not pleased. “Ye’ll not make a laughing stock of Turius. Ye are such a wee thing, I doubt ye could pull the bow at all.”

  She squared her shoulders. She’d had to put up with her cousin’s arrogance for ten years at court because she was small. They were about to find out what a “wee thing” could do.

  Turius held up a hand to Angus and smiled at Deidre. “You could very well make a fool of me, my lady, but something tells me to take a chance. My hunches are seldom wrong. What is your name?”

  “Deidre,” she answered and noticed that Gilead had turned away, but his shoulders seemed to shake. Was he laughing at her?

  Turius didn’t seem to notice. He looked at Angus. “Deidre will stand for me.”

  Angus shrugged. “’Tis yer loss, then.” He gestured to Deidre. “Do ye want me to fetch a child’s bow for ye?”

  “Do ye think to insult me, my lord?” she asked in her best imitation of his brogue.

  He blinked and then grinned. “Nae, lassie. I’ll let Gilead do those favors.”

  Gilead looked decidedly uncomfortable as he followed her to where a collection of bows lay on the ground. “Are ye sure about this, lass?”

  She bent down and picked up a polished longbow made of yew. It was slightly shorter than the others.

  “A good choice,” Gilead murmured, so close that she could feel his breath lightly in her ear. “’Tis Formorian’s. Let me brace it for ye.”

  Deidre willed herself not to turn around. One look into his eyes and she’d not have any strength at all. Not to mention, that sensual mouth would be mere inches from hers. She took a deep breath. She needed to concentrate, and not on him. Gilead was probably doing it on purpose, to weaken her resolve. She muttered a curse she’d heard Childebert use when his mother wasn’t within earshot. Win any way you can.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said as she bent the bow and attached the string to the bow nock. “I need to get the feel of it.” She forced herself to move away from his body heat before she lay in a melted puddle at his feet. She had to win this. She needed to show Niall she wouldn’t stand down from him. Ever. She remembered the way Turius had scrutinized her and given her his trust. Suddenly, she wanted to win as much for him as for herself. She wondered if he inspired that kind of loyalty in his soldiers.

  She chose her arrow carefully. The bow shot was not long, perhaps a hundred yards. A slightly thicker arrow would be more accurate. She sighted two or three for straightness and made her choice.

  “I’m ready.”

  They walked to the target range. “After ye,” Gilead said.

  She nocked the arrow and then a thought came to her. She lowered her bow. “I want you to go first.”

  He looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want anyone—anyone—to think you let me win by perhaps misjudging your shot.”

  A corner of his sinful mouth turned up. “My da would have my hide for that. I intend to hit dead center.”

  “Then do it.”

  He gave her a quick grin and took his stance, legs splayed. Some of his hair had come free of the thong and dark strands fell over his forehead. Deidre’s fingers itched, wanting to brush it back for him. The muscles of his right arm rippled into ribbons of iron as he canted the bow and drew. The arrow spiraled upward, arched, and came down like a swooping eagle. Dead center, as he promised.

  Loud shouting and whistling rent the air. Deidre glanced over to where Angus was laughing. Beside him, Turius looked calm. He nodded at Deidre and smiled.

  Deidre took a deep breath, thankful again that the Frankish squires had a collective sweet tooth for the things she pilfered and let her secretly practice with them to keep her skills sharp. She cocked her arrow, making sure the cock feather stood up, and sighted straight She was a point-of-aim archer rather than an instinctive one like Gilead. Draw…slow and easy…pull to the right ear…She felt her left arm strain from the draw weight. Merde! The long bow was heavier than the one she used. She gritted her teeth. If Queen Formorian could handle this, bow, so could she. Just another inch and she’d have it. She always felt the exact second she shouldered her head…hold…and now. She loosed the arrow, watching its flight, straight and true. It seemed an eternity in the air, and then it knocked Gilead’s arrow from the target.

  There was stunned silence from the crowd. Gilead turned to her and bent low, bringing her hand to his mouth and letting his lips graze her knuckles. “Well done, lass,” he said. “Where did ye learn that?”

  A warm, fuzzy infusion wafted up her arm at his touch and she hoped her knees wouldn’t suddenly give way. She managed a deep breath, wishing she could tell him the truth. She changed the subject.

  “You’re not angry with me?”

  “Nae. Ye won fair. Come, now. I’ll take ye to my father.”

  “I don’t doubt that he will resent losing to a woman, whether it be me or Queen Formorian.”

  A muscle twitched in Gilead’s square jaw. “Ye’ll be fine.”

  Deidre wasn’t so sure. Angus’s dark eyes bore through her as they approached. Maybe she had pushed it too far. She had wanted to prove to Niall that she would never subject herself to him, but if Angus started probing her origins, what would she do? She straightened her back and lifted her chin.

  “I wish my wife had been here,” Turius said as they approached. “She always likes to win, too.” He smiled as he handed Deidre the sack of gold coin. “I believe this belongs to you.”

  Deidre held her hands up. “No, my lord. I stood as your champion. The money is yours.”

  “I’ve no need of it,” Turius replied, “and neither does Angus. We like to compete for anything for the mere sport of it.” He held the bag out to Gilead. “You’re younger than I am. Perhaps you can convince the lady to accept it. Come, Angus, I will be letting you take the edge off my thirst.”

  Angus gave each of them a long look before he turned. “Niall. Come with us. We have talking to do.”

  Niall gave Deidre a long, scrutinizing look before he left, but she ignored him.

  “Turius is right,” Gilead said as they left and the crowd dwindled. He pressed the bag into her palm and closed both of his hands over hers, enveloping her in a warmth that spread up her arms and coursed down her belly, invoking more than a fuzzy feeling this time. “’Twould be good for a lass to have some coin. Ye lost all in the robbery.”

  Deidre hoped he didn’t feel her trembling. It was hard to think straight with her skin—and other parts—on fire. All she wanted to do was pull his arms around her and be lost in the resulting feu de joie. Safe from Niall. Safe with Gilead. He seemed genuinely happy for her.

  What would he do if he knew the truth? And could she tell him?

  ◊♦◊

  Elen had been pleased when Deidre told her of the event over the midday meal, consumed in the lairdess’s room. She told Deidre to spend the afternoon settling in and to arrive early to help her prepare for the night’s feast. A look of trepidation replaced the happiness on Elen’s face at the thought of the feast. Deidre wondered why.

  It wasn’t until late afternoon when Anna brought some clothing that might fit Deidre that she had a chance to question her about the elusive Formorian.

  “I met the king today and I looked for his wife afterward, but I couldn’t find her. I wanted to thank her for the use of her bow. A finely crafted weapon.”

  “Aye.” Anna busied herself taking gowns from a trunk that had been delivered. “Queen Formorian insists on only the best, ’tis said. I’ve heard His Lordship say she’s quite skilled in swordplay, as well.”

  Deidre raised an eyebrow. She had tried her skill a time or two, but the sword was heavy and she preferred the bow. “She fights?”

 
; “Aye, although not to the king’s liking, I think.”

  Deidre blinked. What man would want his wife in combat with him? Was chivalry just a myth from her mysterious writer? Well, Deidre wasn’t planning to go to war with anyone except Niall. “Where did she get her training?”

  The maid shrugged. “From her da, I guess. She’s the daughter of the laird of Gabran. Lord Gabran ne’r had a son, so he taught his daughter to fight. She be a warrior queen like Boudicca.”

  The first-century queen who had led an uprising against the Romans. Interesting. No wonder poor Lady Elen was intimidated. Elen was so fragile and feminine; to have to put up with a masculine, muscular woman who probably used the same rough field language that men did must be distressing. Elen was a lady—Deidre knew that much just from the time she’d spent with her—and she would be forced to endure the woman’s crudeness at dinner tonight.

  Well, Gilead had asked her to attend his mother. Now she understood it was to protect her. And Deidre would do it. Somehow, she’d pawn this female brute off onto Angus. He was the host, after all. Talk of battles and bloodshed, she’d probably relish.

  Then Lady Elen could sit back and relax and not be bothered with her.

  Deidre smiled, thinking how pleased Gilead would be.

  Chapter Four

  QUEEN FORMORIAN

  “What a beautiful dress!” Deidre exclaimed as she helped Elen with the pale blue watered-silk gown. It had a high lace collar and gathered delicately below the bosom, allowing the fine material to fall in soft folds to the floor. Long, fitted sleeves were trimmed with more of the expensive, imported lace from Eire. The color enhanced the translucent whiteness of Elen’s skin.

  Too white. Deidre looked more closely. Elen looked pasty. “Are you ill?”

  “Nae.” Elen sank onto a padded stool as Sheila started combing her hair. “These feasts just try my nerves, that is all.”

  “Shall I send to Brena for a potion, my lady?” Janet asked.

  Elen shook her head. “They make me sleepy. I must needs be awake this eve.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Deidre said soothingly. “I won’t leave your side.”

  Sheila raised an eyebrow. “Who invited ye to the high table?”

  Deidre couldn’t help a somewhat smug smile. “Gilead did.”

  Janet glowered. “And why would he be doing that?”

  “You’ll have to ask him,” Deidre said and was interrupted as Brena came through the door bearing a goblet of wine.

  “From my lord,” she said as she handed it to Elen. “He wants ye to drink all of it before ye come to table.”

  “But why?” Elen asked plaintively. “Wine will flow when we eat.”

  “Aye. But he wants ye to have some color in yer cheeks when ye arrive.” The healer tilted her head to one side. “Ye do look uncommonly pale. Wilna do to have King Turius and Queen Formorian think ye weak and spineless, will it?”

  Deidre watched as Elen turned even more ashen. What a cruel thing to say! Fragile Elen might appear, but Deidre suspected there was strength under that exterior. She would just have to help Elen find it.

  This Formorian would probably behave like a boorish man, but Deidre would be there to make sure she didn’t affect Lady Elen. This was one feast the laird’s wife would be able to enjoy.

  ◊♦◊

  Deidre caught her breath as they entered the Great Hall. Transformation had taken place since she had walked through it earlier that day. Fresh rushes, laced with heather and meadowsweet, covered the floor. Colorful plaids of the various visiting clans lined the walls, almost overwhelming the senses with their brightly interwoven reds, greens, and blues. Turius’s standard, a black bear encased in the constellation of the Big Dipper, set on a field of blue, stood on the dais at the far end of the Hall next to Angus’s red, pawing lion on a gold background. The trestle tables were laden with pewter and the high table, set perpendicular to them and parallel to the long wall, was set in silver and gold.

  As she and Elen walked to the high table, Gilead caught her eye. He looked resplendent in a midnight-blue waistcoat, white shirt, and fly plaid pinned across his left shoulder. His dark hair glistened nearly black and the low light from oil lamps defined his features into a handsomeness that would have made even Apollo retreat in his fiery chariot. Deidre felt herself begin to pant and forced a deep breath. She longed to feel Gilead’s full sensual lips on hers. The thought caused the hundreds of butterflies to rise from their roosts in her stomach. And…dear Lord. Oh, Goddess, no. Yes. He was wearing a kilt! Three different shades of blue squares intermittently run through with red threading. Her glance lowered. Thin, off-white hose hugged well turned-out calves, the muscles bunching as he moved toward them. And…under the kilt?

  When had it grown so infernally hot in here? Even though Deidre’s borrowed gown was modestly low-cut and had short sleeves, she could feel heat radiating from her in shimmering waves.

  Gilead stopped a few feet from her and smiled, his sapphire glance sweeping over her neckline, inflaming her already aroused sensitivity. She had no idea—not in her most vivid dreams—that someone could affect her this way.

  He stepped closer and she inhaled the scent of him, an intoxicating mix of soap and leather and a light spice.

  “Come,” he said and gestured for them to follow. He held a chair for his mother, next to the high-backed one that was for Angus, and handed her the rose from the plate. He frowned slightly as he noticed another rose on the plate next to hers.

  Elen noticed it too. “Formorian,” she said softly.

  Deidre grimaced. How cruel to put that Amazon next to poor Lady Elen. She spotted Angus near the dais.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  He was talking to Turius. Like his son, he was wearing a kilt, and again, Deidre was struck by how much they looked alike. Angus had to be near fifty, yet there was no flab on him at all and his legs were as heavily muscled as Gilead’s. Well, better not think about Gilead. She had a job to do.

  They stopped talking as she came near, Turius giving her a nod and a smile. He was dressed more Briton, in soft leather trews, a red woolen tunic, and a golden torque at his throat.

  “Don’t tell me my wife’s not well this eve,” Angus said.

  Deidre hesitated. She had to take care with her words in front of Turius for she didn’t want to insult him by calling his queen uncouth; although, no doubt, she was.

  “Lady Elen is here, my lord, but you are right. She doesn’t feel well and I fear won’t be good company for Queen Formorian.” She ignored his raised eyebrow and went on. “If you would allow me to switch the seating arrangements, I could take care of Lady Elen and I’ll seat the queen between you and King Turius. You are the host tonight; I’m sure she won’t be insulted.”

  The corner of Angus’s mouth twitched. “Does my wife know ye’re doing this?”

  “No,” Deidre said, “but I’m sure she’d want to have the queen entertained properly.”

  “Properly? Aye. I’m sure she’d want everything to be proper,” he said.

  “Sounds like a good idea to me,” Turius added. “I wouldn’t want to burden Elen. In truth, my wife can be a bit vivacious at times.”

  Deidre would just wager she could. Talking about weapons and war and killing strategies like a man would certainly be what she’d want to listen to! But she could spare Elen from that. Deidre smiled sweetly. “Thank-you, my lords.”

  The herald called them to tables. With a grin, Angus pulled the chair next to Elen for Deidre. As she sat down, she whispered to Elen, “Don’t worry. I’ve taken care of the seating. You won’t have to listen to field talk and battles tonight.”

  Elen threw a startled glance to her. “What have ye done?”

  Before Deidre could answer, Gilead took the seat on her other side. “I’m sorry, but this is for Queen Formorian,” he said. “We always seat the king to my father’s right and the queen to my mother’s left.”

  “That’s all right
,” Deidre said happily. “I’ve changed that for tonight. Queen Formorian can bore your father with her talk instead of your mother.”

  Elen gasped and grasped the table with a soft moan.

  Gilead’s mouth was a hard line. “Ye did this without permission?”

  “Oh, no,” Deidre said, puzzled by his expression. “I asked your father. He seemed as if he thought it a fine idea.”

  Gilead’s blue eyes turned dark. “Of course he would,” he muttered.

  Was he angry with her? Deidre couldn’t fathom why. She’d saved his mother from a boring evening listening to wretched talk about bloodshed.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Before he could answer, the room stilled. Chairs stopped dragging, cups weren’t clacking, conversations dropped off. Deidre turned her head to see why.

  At the main entrance, opposite the wall with the dais, a woman stood. “Stood” was not quite right. She reigned. Still as a Roman statue, she surveyed the room. She could have been the Huntress, Diana. Tall, she wore a simple white gown that bared slender golden arms. Cut low in front to reveal firmly rounded breasts, she had sashed it with a golden belt at her slender waist. Her hair was a blazing halo of fire. Thick and curly, it cascaded over her shoulders and down her back in shimmering strands of auburn, amber, and russet. Green eyes, slightly slanted over impossibly high cheekbones began to twinkle mischievously as she surveyed the room. Her full, pink mouth curved into a welcoming smile, revealing small white teeth as she walked to the high table.

  “Who…” Deidre started to ask, and then, she knew. Formorian. Not some heavily-built mannish woman as she had imagined. Oh, no. This one was all graceful curves. More of a goddess than a warrior.

  Both Angus and Turius leaped to their feet to pull her chair. She smiled at her husband and kissed him fully on the lips. Then, to Deidre’s amazement, she turned to Angus and did the same thing, running her fingers languidly through his long hair. Elen averted her eyes.

  “Sorry to be late,” Formorian said as she sat down. She smiled indulgently at the crowd seated below them. “I hope I haven’t kept the meal waiting.”