My Noble Knight

by Cynthia Breeding

  Gilead ignored the question and poured himself some wine. He preferred goat’s milk in the morning, but Angus didn’t keep any in the solarium. His father was not looking his fittest. Although his clothes were clean, he had not shaved and he looked tired. Or maybe worried? He should be. And where had he been that he appeared so quickly once they’d taken his mother to her chambers?

  “Mother’s better this morning,” Gilead said as he took a seat.

  Angus nodded. “I’ll have ye take her wine to her this morn, lest there be any more rumor of my tainting it.”

  “No one would think that,” Gilead answered.

  Angus arched a brow. “Our bonny Deidre did.”

  Gilead toyed with his goblet. Had Deidre really thought his father capable of murdering his mother?

  “We don’t know that there was poison at all,” Gilead finally said. “Mother’s not been well. Mayhap putting up with…” He stopped. “I mean, these visits always seem to take their toll on her. She’s delicate.”

  Angus snorted. “Yer mother snivels. I’ve not time for waiting on her hand and foot. Would that she developed a backbone and stood up for herself.”

  “Like Formorian?”

  His father gave him a long, dark look. “Have a care. Ye tread on boggy ground.”

  Gilead reined in his temper with an effort. Drat that woman. It was fine that Turius treated her like an equal and actually preferred she ride beside him, but was he blind to what was happening? Gilead wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or not. He sighed. Formorian was like a Highland burn, rushing to meet the sea, tumbling down falls, slipping around rocks, merging the energy again to pursue the relentless journey, destroying any obstacle in her path or taking it with her. His mother was probably another obstacle, which made him angry again. He clenched his jaw. He’d get nowhere arguing with his father, and he was here because of Deidre.

  Gilead chose his words carefully. “I meant that I know ye respect the queen for her independence.”

  Angus gave him a suspicious look. “That I do, as does Turius.”

  “Aye. Mayhap, then, ye could also have respect for Deidre’s wishes.”

  “And what would those wishes be?”

  “The lass does not wish to be handfasted to Niall.”

  His father sat back. “The lass is in no position to make demands. She’s an orphan—or so she says—with no dowry. Niall has both money and lands. She should consider herself lucky.”

  “She should be allowed a choice,” Gilead said stubbornly.

  “Why?”

  “Because…because it is her life, Da! Ye know Niall. He is not a kind man. He’ll try to break her spirit, just like he did his last wife.”

  “Bah! Rhea was mousy to begin with. I wager Deidre’s sharp tongue will give Niall a turn or two. ’Tis one of the reasons I think they’ll suit. A man likes a challenge now and then.”

  Gilead didn’t think Niall would appreciate a “turn or two.” More likely, he’d beat her. And he couldn’t see Deidre going willingly to Niall’s bed. A dagger twisted in Gilead’s gut. Deidre, naked and vulnerable, her soft, satin skin mottled…those lusciously round breasts bruised…her full lips split and swollen…”

  “Nae. She will stand up to him.”

  Angus tilted his head and studied him. “Ye seem to know a great deal about her. Have ye tupped her?”

  “Certes not!” Not that he hadn’t wanted to. God knew, he’d not felt urges like this since he was a lad and had dreams that left him wet in the mornings. He could well imagine what it would feel like to have her warm, pliant body beneath his, opening herself to him…He struggled to push those thoughts away.

  “Da. Ye know that Niall craves power and must needs feel he is in control—”

  “Exactly.” Angus leaned forward. “It is a frightening thing in a man given to weaknesses like liquor. If I claim Deidre as kin, I bind Niall to me. And I bring in powerful allies from Eire, should we need them.”

  “She will deny she’s kin, then.”

  “Hmmm. Not unless she wants to tell us who she really is,” Angus answered. “I doona believe her story. But mayhap ye should try to find out. Now, go. I have preparations to make before the council meeting.”

  Aha! His father was inadvertently giving him permission to be with her! Gilead stood and walked to the door. “She’ll be free of the handfasting until I find out who she really is?”

  “Nae. I canna do that. Niall has already agreed to terms.”

  “But handfasts can be broken,” Gilead answered.

  Angus hesitated. “Aye. Under certain circumstances. Find out who she is, lad.” As Gilead turned to the door, Angus spoke once more. “Don’t even think on tupping her, son. I doona need war with Niall.”

  Gilead’s back stiffened and he didn’t turn back. His father was a fine one to talk.

  ◊♦◊

  The council meeting was not going well. Niall sported a massive hangover and was surly, snarling at nearly every suggestion Turius made. Comgall, the laird of Cenel Comgaill, could barely contain his fury at Niall’s boorishness. Not that Gilead could blame him. He stood more to lose than any of them, since his lands were to the west of Niall’s and actually bordered Fergus Mor’s. He was likely to see the brunt of the summer attack.

  Turius threw down the quill over the map on the long, rectangular table and stood. “I’ll wash my hands of all of you if you won’t listen to reason! If you keep bickering among yourselves, Fergus will pick you off as easily as ripe berries from a bush. I won’t send my men in to die because you can’t unite.”

  Gabran frowned and looked at his daughter. Formorian laid a hand on Turius’s arm. “Remember, my father’s lands are vulnerable, as well.”

  Turius paused and then sank into his chair. “What would you have me do?”

  Gilead had long ceased being surprised at Formorian’s presence—the only woman allowed—at these meetings, but it was the first time he’d actually heard Turius ask for an opinion. He glanced sideways at his father, but Angus appeared to be waiting for an answer, too. Gilead shook his head. What magic did that woman possess?

  This morning she was dressed like a man, in boots, trews, and an overlarge linen shirt that was probably Turius’s. A leather cuirass hung over the back of her chair and her hair was pulled severely back, no doubt because Turius and his guard would be wanting her ready to ride directly after the meeting. There was nothing feminine about her attire, yet with just a touch, she had managed to bring her husband into line and his own father looked mesmerized.

  Formorian picked up the quill and used it as a pointer. “I think Fergus will move northeast rather than southeast through Comgaill.”

  “He’d have to fight the Picts, then!” Comgall exclaimed.

  “Mayhap. But if he could ally with them temporarily—promise them even more land just for passing through—Fergus would have a formidable force to press down on us from the north. And,” she added, “he wouldn’t have to bludgeon his way through all of ye first.”

  “Blethering foolishness from a woman!” Niall muttered. “Who ever heard of the painted barbarians willing to talk truce with anyone?”

  Angus gave Formorian a thoughtful look. “If ye’re right, Fergus could march to the eastern sea and squeeze us in from three sides.”

  “Exactly.” She gave Angus a wide smile and then turned to Turius. “I suggest this: One. The lairds fortify the northern borders to Pictland and track any movement. Two. Ye send an envoy to treaty with the Picts first.”

  “Ye be taupie!” Niall yelled.

  Angus brought his fist down on the table. “Formorian is not stupid…and ye best watch yer mouth if ye want teeth left in it.” He turned to Turius. “I’ll send the envoy from Oengus. We be the closest clan to Pictland.”

  Turius nodded, looking relieved. “Then it’s settled.”

  “Are ye daft?” Niall leapt to his feet, overturning his chair.

  “Nae,” Angus replied. “And if ye don’t keep a civil
tongue, the handfast we spoke of may be made null. I’ll not subject my kin to such rantings.”

  Niall narrowed his eyes and glared at Angus, but he kept his mouth closed.

  “What’s this?” Formorian asked with interest. “A handfasting? To your kin?”

  Gilead’s gut felt like it had received a solid kick from an ornery mule. Why couldn’t his father have kept still? So far, no one else had known. Now, the news would spread like wildfire throughout the clans.

  “Aye. Elen’s new handmaiden…” Angus glanced at Gilead and then back to Formorian. “The lass, Deidre, would appear to be distant kin.”

  Formorian turned her green, catlike gaze to Gilead. “Isn’t she the one who bested ye with the bow?”

  He squelched a sudden grin. He ought to be upset about that, but truth was, he was looking forward to a rematch. He would ask Deidre to try a larger bow and then he could stand behind her, one hand supporting her bow arm, the other helping her with the draw weight, bringing her close against him… He stopped. No, that was something his father would do. Not him. “Aye. She did.”

  Gabran leaned forward. “I, for one, think it’s high time ye chose a wife, Niall. A good woman to keep ye on the straight and narrow.” And sober, the message left unsaid.

  Camgall fixed an eye on Gilead. “Aye. A fine wife can bring out the best in a mon. When do ye plan to wed, Gilead?”

  Gilead started. Marriage was the last thing on his mind. His parents’ match was a farce and Turius and Formorian seemed oblivious to each other. Drustan’s heart had been broken by a woman who toyed with him. Gilead wanted no part in such disasters. “I’d not thought on it.”

  “Well, my daughter, Dallis, is of marriageable age,” Comgall answered and glanced at Angus. “I’d not mind binding my clan to yers, either, Angus.”

  “Mayhap the lad fears he can’t control a woman,” Niall sneered. “He was just bested by one. I’d not allow a woman to best me.”

  Formorian threw him a sharp look. “Ye might not have a choice!” She tossed her head and walked out of the room. Silently, the rest of the men followed her.

  Niall was still muttering under his breath when Gilead reached the hallway and looked up. The other hoof of that ornery mule kicked him hard, causing him to take great gulps of air.

  Deidre stood at the far end of the hall and Formorian was talking to her, one hand on her shoulder. Gilead didn’t have to hear what was being said to know Formorian was asking about the handfast. Deidre’s face had gone ashen and her blue eyes had dilated to appear nearly black in her chalky face. A hand flew to her mouth and then she spotted Gilead. She turned and ran from the hall.

  Gilead started to go after her, but instinctively he knew she wouldn’t see him. He had never felt so miserable in his life. He had failed Deidre.

  ◊♦◊

  Still trembling, Deidre leaned against the windowsill of her small room and watched as Turius’s troops fell into rank in preparation for leaving. She was surprised to see that Roman discipline had been ingrained in the men. Archers lined up in maniples of twenty men across, five maniples deep. Next came the spearmen, followed by the sword and mace holders. Each row was so precise that from her upstairs window she could see even spaces horizontally, vertically, and diagonally. They moved forward out the gates in the same formation to make room for the cavalry.

  Deidre gasped as she watched the half century of men emerge from the stables. Each of them wore a red cloak identical to the soldiers who had abducted her escort. They had been Turius’s men.

  She let the curtain fall back and sank onto the bed. It wouldn’t take long for Turius to find out who her escort was once he returned home. She hadn’t even had time to begin searching for the Stone. Her guards were loyal men, not given to easy confessions. But would Turius torture them? And if one talked, what would happen to her?

  Chapter Six

  TREACHERY AFOOT

  Deidre avoided Gilead for the next three days, managing to vacate the room on one pretense or another moments before his morning visits to his mother. She huddled now near the small table in her room, hoping Una didn’t come looking for her. Even though Niall had taken care to leave no bruises, her wrist was still swollen from the wrenching he had given it when they danced. Only the lightest tasks caused her no pain. Fortunately, Elen was not demanding and seemed not to notice her quick disappearances prior to Gilead’s visits.

  The handfast news had spread like fire on dry grass. Janet openly gloated at her, no doubt relieved that she was no longer competition for Gilead’s attention.

  Ha! As if she ever had been. He’d told her he’d talk with his father so she wouldn’t have to marry Niall. Apparently he forgot to do that! She didn’t mean anything to him at all. And the kiss? Clotilde had warned her over and over about letting men make advances. Gilead had just taken advantage of what she’d freely given. Well. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Nor was she going to marry Niall. She touched her wrist protectively. She’d have to take care not to anger him further while she sought escape. The mere thought of being pleasant to him nearly made her retch.

  She didn’t know how much time she had if Turius managed to make her men talk when he returned home. She must find a way to escape and she must find the Stone. She had been here a sennight already and had not been able to start searching, since she had no way to leave the castle. Her Sight had remained maddeningly elusive. Too bad she couldn’t summon it up at will or, in lieu of that, conjure up Merlin from The Book. Sadly, magic was not one of her talents.

  A thought tripped over the last one and she sat up straighter. Allegedly, Merlin had moved the huge stones that formed Stonehenge. Scotland had its share of standing stones. Those ancient circles were supposed to contain power. If she could locate one close enough, perhaps her Vision would return to her once she stepped inside.

  But first, she realized, she’d have to have access to a horse. She’d need one to explore faerie mounds, sacred springs, and other ancient sites where the magician might have hidden the Stone, although she wasn’t sure how she would be able to slip away. Mayhap she could convince Angus to let her learn to ride. She knew how, thanks to the French stable lads, but if she pretended that she wanted to learn to please Niall—she forced herself to swallow the bile that rose in her throat—well, it might work. Formorian rode. It wasn’t that unusual.

  She rose determinedly. Now that she had a plan, she felt brave enough to confront the cook about whether Formorian had been seen in the kitchen the day that Elen took so ill. After that success, she’d find Angus.

  ◊♦◊

  For the several hundredth time, Gilead felt like kicking himself. He had let Deidre down. Worse, he hadn’t seen her in three days. He stabbed a forkful of manure and tossed it outside his horse’s stall. He’d expected her to be angry with him, and had even been glad he didn’t have to face her wrath the day Turius and Formorian left. But now Deidre was openly avoiding him. He’d seen a wisp of her skirt disappearing around the corner of the hall one day and just this morning he’d heard her door close as he came up the steps. He’d thought briefly about knocking on it, but he didn’t really know what to say. Being sorry was no good. He’d have to find a way to make good on his promise. Breaking his word was unthinkable.

  Angrily, he pitched another load out the door and nearly hit his father with it.

  “Why are ye mucking out yer horse’s stall? We’ve stable hands enough for that.” Angus leaned casually against the frame, one foot crossed over the other.

  “It gives me something to do,” Gilead said as he scooped more soiled straw.

  His father folded his arms over his chest. “It seems to me, ye have been ‘doing something’ a might strong these past two days.”

  “I don’t know what ye are talking about.” Gilead scraped the last remains together. “Malcolm likes a clean stall.”

  Angus glanced over to the chestnut stallion tethered nearby and then back to his son. “And would Malcolm
also be insisting that ye spend hours at swordplay, tiring our best warriors, or even more time with the bow, wearying the archers?”

  Gilead brushed past him to gather fresh straw. “Fergus will make his move soon. I thought ye wanted us fit to fight.”

  “Aye. But men fight better not wounded. Yesterday ye drew blood twice.”

  “Hardly a nick. Young Calum misstepped.” Gilead threw the straw down and went back for a second armful.

  “And Adair?”

  “Slow. ’Tis all.”

  Angus raised an eyebrow. “My Captain of the Guard is slow?”

  Gilead hesitated. Adair was second only to his father in skill. He had simply not expected Gilead to unleash hell’s full fury on him yesterday. And Gilead didn’t quite understand it himself. He just knew he had to release the anger that was raging inside of him. He did not like to fail and he had failed Deidre. Memory of her bloodless face when Formorian spoke with her—and the gods only knew what she said—haunted him.

  “Mayhap I was a bit fashed.”

  “Being fashed can get ye killed in battle. Ye were lucky that Adair was lax; I will speak to him about it.”

  Gilead groaned inwardly. The captain already delighted in making workouts strenuous for him. Only preparing him to be laird one day, Adair would say. After Adair had received a tongue-lashing from his father, Gilead would be in for more misery. “I doona think there be a need, Da.”

  “I do. Neither of ye focused on yer weapons like ye should. Ye’ve so much pent up energy, it’s nigh to steaming out yer ears.” Angus tilted his head and studied his son. “I think ye need a woman. Seeing as ye have fresh straw, why not fetch a willing maid for a tumble?”

  His father’s answer to everything. Deliberately, Gilead pushed back the tempting image of a satin-skinned, naked Deidre writhing beneath him, begging…Bah! Deidre would probably rather rake her nails over him like sharp daggers, until his blood ran. Gilead sighed. “I doona think that would help.”

  His father looked at him incredulously. “How can it not?”