My Noble Knight

by Cynthia Breeding

  Niall stared at him. Couldn’t anyone but him see the foolishness of listening to a woman? Did every man think with his cock when it came to her? He shook his head. “Angus has already sent an envoy up to ask for King Gunpar’s help in staying ye.”

  “Then what is yer point? I’d not thought to move through Pictland.”

  “That’s just it. They think—based on that bit—the queen’s idea—that ye will. They plan to align their troops along Pictland’s border to wait for ye.” Niall leaned forward. “Doona ye see? Send some of yer new men as decoy troops to Pictland to let the lairds think they’re right. If the troops die, they die. Comgall’s army will not be watching its own borders. The way will be clear for ye to sweep it and invade Oengus.” He paused. “Ye will have to pass through my lands, too, but ye’ll find the passage clear.”

  Fergus raised a brow. “Where will Turius be? I have not a death wish to take on the British army, too.”

  Niall grinned wolfishly. “Think ye Turius would defend the man who cuckolded him?”

  “Nae. Can ye prove that, though? Angus canna be such a fool.”

  “Aye. He can. Ye can trust me to make certes Turius finds out.” He eyed the bottle again. “Wouldna ye like claiming Comgaill and Oengus?”

  Fergus’s eyes glittered. “’Twould be a boon. Mac Erca took my lands in Eire. ’Tis his daughter that is married to Angus.” He leveled his gaze on Niall. “What’s in it for ye, then?”

  “I want the half of Oengus that was promised me by my father. ’Tis all.” No need for him to know the whole truth. “Ye would have the other half, and Comgaill. Together, we could crush Gabrain, as well. Everything north of the Wall would be ours.”

  Fergus unstopped the bottle and poured two whiskies. He lifted one in salute. “We have a pact, then?”

  Niall’s hand shook as he took his drink. “Aye. A pact,” he said, and drained the glass. Whisky had never tasted so good.

  ◊♦◊

  Gilead had managed to take himself south to Lothian again, costing Deidre nearly another sennight of instruction. Winger, the sorrel gelding that she’d been given, was a good horse, solid and docile. If only she could just saddle him and ride out! The solstice was approaching. She’d heard Janet and Sheila giggling over “Litha,” the festival of fire. Her mother had observed it, as well.

  Held on the summer solstice, it included the symbolic dance of the Oak King taking over the growth of new life, while the Holly King gave up his hold on the past year. Energies would shift on that night and the power in the stone circles would be stronger. She had to find one of those henges by then.

  She had asked Elen if she knew of any nearby, but Elen rarely left the castle, so she didn’t know. Brena had looked at her curiously when she’d asked, but had remained silent. The young maid, Anna, had left the castle to return home and care for younger siblings when her mother became ill. Deidre didn’t want to arouse suspicion by asking anyone else.

  Gilead had arrived home late last night, and this morning Deidre waited for him impatiently in the barn. When he arrived, he didn’t seem particularly surprised to see her.

  “Ye’d be wanting yer riding lesson, I suppose?”

  He sounded so cold. “Yes. You’ve kept me waiting a week,” Deidre said. “At this rate, I’ll never learn to ride.”

  His face was impassive as he nodded and walked to the stall where the sorrel was stabled. Deidre followed him, wishing she could get him to give her his lopsided grin, or at least, look at her.

  “Let me saddle him,” she said impulsively as he led Winger out.

  “Nae. The saddle is too heavy for a wee lass.” He spread the blanket over the charger’s back and lifted the saddle off its tree.

  “I’m stronger than I look,” Deidre said and held out her hands.

  “Suit yerself, then,” Gilead answered and placed the saddle in her arms.

  She staggered under its weight. It was made of solid wood beneath the leather seat and had to weigh near to four stone. Winger stood a good sixteen hands, which meant she’d have to lift the blasted thing over her head. Merde. Gilead stood there patiently, watching her. She didn’t know what was wrong with him, but she would show him she could do this.

  Deidre bent one leg and balanced the saddle against her thigh, tossing the cinch and right stirrup leather back and over the seat. With an effort, she got hold of the pommel in one hand and the cantle in the other. She squatted, about to push up, when Winger turned his head, caught the blanket between his teeth, and tossed it to the ground.

  “Would ye like me to get that for ye?” Gilead asked languidly.

  She glared at him. Did he think she could stand here holding this beastly thing forever? She didn’t dare put it down for fear she wouldn’t be able to pick it up. She gritted her teeth and forced a smile. “If you don’t mind.”

  He bent over to retrieve the blanket and she thought she saw the corner of his mouth draw up. So now he was laughing at her? She saw nothing amusing in trying to be helpful.

  Gilead smoothed the blanket over the horse’s withers with agonizing slowness. “Ye must always be careful the pad is smooth,” he said as he adjusted the corners carefully. “Otherwise, it irritates the horse.”

  Like he wasn’t irritating her? First, the aloofness…and now, condescension? She didn’t want to look at that mocking expression on his face, but she did anyhow. “I know that,” she huffed out, short of breath. “Now, please stand aside.”

  Gilead bowed slightly and stepped back. With a supreme effort, she hoisted what felt like a couple of bags of sodden peat up and over Winger’s back. She almost made it. The saddle was half on and she braced it with her shoulder, but the gelding sidled away.

  “Hell’s fire and damnation!” she said and then found herself trapped between the horse and Gilead as he brought his arms around her to lift the saddle and settle it easily. Enclosed in his spicy scent, mingled with the smell of horse and leather, her blood heated and sent waves of pulsation racing deep into her groin.

  Gilead’s chest brushed her back as he reached around her to throw the cinch and stirrup over. Her nipples budded instantly at the slight touch of hard muscle and she fought the desire to turn around and press herself against him.

  He placed his hands on her shoulders, and she closed her eyes, hoping he would run those strong, warm fingers down her arms or dip his head and nibble her nape. Mon Dieu, she loved that! Involuntarily, she tilted her head a little, giving him access.

  She felt him hesitate, his breath warm on her neck. Then, abruptly, he lifted her like a bag of feathers and set her aside. Silently, he finished saddling the horse and handed her the reins.

  “I didna know a lady to curse so,” he said as he looked into her eyes. “Is it the way of things in Armorica?”

  Amorica? Oh, yes, that was where she was from. “Ummm. Yes, as a matter of fact. We do have that freedom.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “A lady does not, I think. Where did ye say ye lived?”

  Deidre squirmed. Gilead had asked other questions about her past, but she had always managed to hedge them with vague answers. Now, he wanted a place. “Benoic,” she said quickly and then groaned inwardly. In The Book, it was Lancelot’s home. Only, it probably didn’t exist, either.

  Gilead looked confused. “Where exactly is that?”

  She sincerely hoped that whoever had written the stories had based the legends on some sort of fact. “Just on the edge of Brocéliande.”

  “The dark forest?” he asked with narrowed eyes. “And is that where yer mother was killed?”

  “Ah, yes. She fell into the Loch and drowned.” Part of that was true. Her mother had drowned. She really was not good at lying.

  Before he could ask any more questions she turned and walked toward the mounting stoop.

  “Are we going to get on with the lesson? I really do want to learn.”

  Gilead’s expression hardened. “Certes. I had forgotten that ye are most eager to impress your betrothed
.”

  Deidre bit her lip as she walked Winger over to the corral that served as a paddock. Better that Gilead should think that than ask her any more questions. She was spinning a web like the proverbial spider, only she felt as though she was the fly.

  ◊♦◊

  Gilead was not in the best of moods. After their riding lesson—at which Dee seemed very adept, and he was beginning to wonder about that—he’d taken Malcolm out for a hard gallop. Feeling the strength of the huge horse under him, his powerful haunch muscles bunching as his legs stretched flat out, always soothed Gilead. The wind whipping, the course mane stinging his face as he leaned low, served as a wake-up call.

  He’d almost let himself become a fool again. What was it about the wee blond lass that stirred his blood so? He had only meant to catch the saddle before it spooked Winger and yet, her body had felt so yielding, so soft, when he enveloped her. And he could have sworn she was waiting for a kiss. The temptation to succumb, to brush his lips across the smooth skin of her neck, to run his tongue over the sensitive hollow below her ear, was overwhelming. He’d felt her tense, knew she wanted him to do just that. But she also wanted to impress Niall. God help him, he’d never understand why.

  What kind of games was she playing? He was pretty sure she was lying about her past. Today’s hesitation over the place called Benoic only strengthened that theory. What the bonny lass didn’t know was that his father’s mother lived in the dark forest, at the very edge of the Black Loch itself. She would know if someone had drowned there. On the morrow, he would send an emissary to find out. He should have done it before; but, in truth, he had wanted to believe Deidre. The alternative, that she might be a Saxon spy, made him shudder. His father would have no mercy, if she were.

  Gilead’s mood did not get any better at dinner when he found out that Niall had arrived. He scowled as the man took a seat next to Deidre.

  “Our envoy has returned,” Angus said, as the servants set down the heavy platters of roast boar and steaming bowls of sauces and gravies.

  Niall looked up from his plate, juice dripping off his fingers. “Aye? And what did Gunpar have to say?”

  “He’s given us permission to amass at his borders, but not cross them,” Angus answered, “and he’s agreed to block any passage that Fergus may make.”

  “Hmmm. And what if Fergus offers him money?”

  “The Picts care nothing for coin. They barter.” Gilead said. “Sheep would be more to their liking.”

  Niall looked thoughtful. “Then do ye think Fergus will still attempt to do as the queen suggested?”

  Angus gave him a hard look. “I do not think we can afford to ignore that risk. I’ve sent for Turius’s relay runners to keep us posted.”

  “Relay runners?” Niall asked casually.

  Gilead lifted his head. Did Niall seem overly interested? “Aye. Ye know they’re very effective. Faster than our own scouts.”

  “What are relay runners?” Deidre asked.

  “Turius posts a well-trained man every five leagues or so between his headquarters and the place he wants to watch,” Gilead answered. “They’re lightly armed and ride smaller, swift horses. The first rider hands off his message to the one waiting with a fresh horse at the next post. We will know within a day and night’s time if Fergus moves.”

  “Gunpar also mentioned that longboats had been sighted on the horizon,” Angus said. “Turius thought it might be wise if he positioned some of his troops to watch our eastern shore for Saxons while we are away in the North.” He glanced toward Elen. “He and Formorian should be arriving within a few days.”

  She turned pale and quickly reached for her wine. Gilead groaned. An extended stay from that huntress his mother didn’t need, and he would, no doubt, exhaust himself keeping an eye on his libidinous father.

  His mood blackened further when he noticed that Niall was running his fingers up Deidre’s arm. He thought he saw her flinch, but then she caught him looking at her. She smiled at Niall as she withdrew her hand and reached for her wine. She smiled at him.

  Bloody hell.

  ◊♦◊

  Deidre watched the Briton king and queen’s arrival two days later from Elen’s chambers, nervous that Turius might have found out who she was. But none of her escort was with him and she thought he might have brought them if the truth had come out.

  Even from this distance, she could see Angus’s hand linger on Formorian’s arm as he helped her dismount. Deidre had serious doubts that the woman needed any help dismounting, trained for battle as she supposedly was, but no one would know by looking at how she slowly slithered down the front of him. Her horse shielded her from Turius’s sight, but he wasn’t paying attention anyway, already engrossed in conversation with Gilead.

  She heard Elen’s barely audible sigh and turned her attention away from the scene below. Poor lady. How she managed to find inner strength enough to maintain a gracious facade, Deidre didn’t know. To have her husband practically flaunt his interest in Formorian was humiliating enough, but Deidre knew that Elen still loved Angus. How absolutely heart-wrenching that must be. And now, Turius and his beguiling queen would be here for weeks. Maybe months.

  “You mustn’t fret, Lady Elen. You’ll only make yourself ill,” Deidre said gently and led her away from the window.

  Elen sank into her chair, seeming to fold into herself like a sack of squashed feathers. “I suppose ’tis no more than I deserve.”

  “Deserve?” Deidre could hardly conceal her outrage. “You deserve to be treated much better! Your husband—and I don’t care if he is the laird—should show you some respect and contain himself.”

  Elen patted her hand. “Dear child. It would not change how he feels.”

  “Still,” Deidre said stubbornly, “he married you, didn’t he? He must care for you. You’re the mother of his child.”

  “That, I am.” Elen managed a weak smile. “It’s probably the only reason my husband doesn’t hate me.”

  “Hate you? Why should he hate you?”

  “I did a bad thing. I was young and foolish and Angus paid the price for it.” Elen looked up at Deidre. “There is honor in the man, child. Please believe that.”

  Deidre squelched an unladylike snort, but held her peace. Whatever Lady Elen had done, she had the refined class to act like a real lady. Too bad Angus couldn’t act like a true knight.

  Bah. There she was, still hoping for chivalry. Lady Elen was married to a man who didn’t love her and Deidre was desperately trying to avoid another loveless marriage. Time to stop daydreaming and face reality. No courtly hero was going to ride in and rescue either one of them.

  ◊♦◊

  Gilead heaved a sigh of relief as he sat down at the high table for dinner that evening. He had managed to seat Formorian between Turius and Niall. She would, no doubt, take her hidden irritation of Gilead’s maneuvering out on Niall, which suited Gilead even better. Check and checkmate. In a pique of almost childish delight, he had managed to seat a loathly matron on Niall’s other side.

  They were waiting on Elen’s arrival to begin serving the meal. His mother had stayed withdrawn most of the day with Dee—Mistress Deidre, he reminded himself—in attendance. Whatever schemes the wee blond lass harbored, he had to admit that she was good for his mother.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a shriek, followed by a scream and something clattering down the stairs in the hallway behind the dining area. He jumped to his feet as a breathless Deidre rushed through the door.

  “Come quick!” she said. “Lady Elen has fallen down the stairs!”

  Gilead reached his mother first. She lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, moaning softly, her left leg drawn up under her.

  He checked his mother for broken bones. Her ankle was already swelling, but it appeared to be sprained, not broken. As he started to pick her up, he noticed Deidre on the stairs above him.

  “What are ye doing?” he asked.

  For a moment, Deidre did
n’t answer and only ran her fingers along the side of the woven cloth that had been attached to the steps. When she finally looked at him, her eyes were clouded with worry.

  “The rug was loose on this step. Your mother hooked a slipper on it.”

  “I’ll have it repaired at once,” Angus said, and nodded toward Gilead. “Take yer mother to her chambers and I’ll send for the medic.” Turning, he cleared the hallway of onlookers. Formorian looked curiously up at him and then she, too, moved away.

  Deidre was still sitting on the step. Gilead shifted his mother in his arms. “What is it now, lass?”

  “It was deliberate,” she whispered hoarsely. “The nails are nowhere to be found and the wood is fresh around the holes.” She tugged the rug up, revealing a big slash in the middle. “Someone wanted your mother dead.”

  Chapter Eight

  THE RIDE

  “What do you mean, deliberate?” Angus narrowed his eyes as he looked up at Deidre from behind the table that served as a desk in the map room.

  Deidre had just come from making sure Elen was settled for the evening. The medic had wrapped Elen’s ankle in linen swaddling soaked in hot chamomile tea and Brena brought a sleeping concoction, laced with a wee bit of motherswort, the healer had said.

  Deidre glanced at Gilead, seated across from his father. “That tear was not there yesterday.”

  “How can ye be so sure of that? ’Twould be an easy thing to miss in worn cloth.” Angus scribbled a note to himself on a bit of vellum. “I’ll have it replaced.”

  Deidre shook her head. “I know for certain. Lady Elen lost a small stone from her brooch yesterday afternoon when her cloak snagged on the railing. She sent me to look for it. I covered every single stair. There was no tear.”

  “Even so. Anyone could have tripped. What makes ye think someone wants to murder my wife?”

  “Well, there was that poisoning attempt,” Deidre said.

  Angus raised an eyebrow. “If I remember, ye thought there was something wrong with the wine I poured. Did I slash the rug, too?”