My Noble Knight

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Why? She’s never been sorry for her dalliance before.”

  Angus’s eyes smoldered, but he held his temper. “She dinna mean to hurt yer mother. It was never our intent. Ye doona know how it is—”

  “I know ye took the Oath,” Gilead interrupted, “but I would think Formorian would have the decency not to rub my mother’s face in yer foul mess.”

  Angus reached Gilead in two strides, his fists clenched. “That’s why she wanted to apologize. I told her to leave be.”

  “But would she poison your wife?” Deidre asked.

  Both men turned to her, their anger momentarily harnessed. “What?”

  “It had to have been poison,” Deidre said, “just like the other times. There were no bruises, no marks, just a look of pain and, from the way her hands clenched the sheet, she might have been clutching her stomach.”

  Deidre walked over to the dresser where stood a wine cup, along with a basin and ewer of water. A drop of residue remained in the cup. She lifted the goblet and sniffed. A slightly piney odor wafted past her nostrils. She began to dip a finger, but Angus snatched the cup away.

  “Are ye daft?”

  Deidre lifted her head, refusing to be intimidated. “Are you afraid I’ll suddenly fall ill if I taste what’s in that cup?”

  Angus narrowed his eyes at the implication. “I’d not kill my own wife. But ye...ye are a stranger here. Gilead says ye are no spy, but I havena been so sure. Ida found ye quickly enough. Was it information he was wanting?”

  “Da! She was kept a prisoner,” Gilead interjected.

  “Or mayhap that’s what they wanted us to think,” Angus answered, not taking his eyes off Deidre’s face. “It seems to me that ye have been present every time something has happened... the first time Elen fell ill and ye claimed poison...it would be very clever of ye to bring that up and cover yer own trail.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “And ye were right behind Elen on the stair,” Angus continued. “Did ye push her? Or did ye just loose the rug when ye looked for the jewel from her brooch?”

  “Da! Deidre could never hurt my mother!”

  “No?” Angus looked at Gilead. “Wasna it Deidre who discovered Elen with the bruises around her neck? No one else was seen.” He turned back to Deidre. “If ye are going to be accusing me, or Mori, ye might do best to look into the tin and see yer own face.”

  Deidre began to tremble, in spite of her bravado. “I swear I did not—”

  The door flew open and the disheveled guard appeared.

  “What is it?” Angus asked in agitation.

  “It’s Brena, sir. We canna find her anywhere.”

  Angus swore. “Have Una go through her room. See what’s missing.” As the guard left, he turned back to Gilead. “If ye are as sure of Deidre’s innocence as I am of Mori’s, that leaves only Brena.”

  “I am sure of Deidre, Da. But...” He hesitated and then said reluctantly, “Remember that Brena was Formorian’s healer when she came here. And that she offered to stay after our own physician suddenly died.”

  Angus looked at him thoughtfully. “Go on.”

  “Well, if Mother were poisoned, then mayhap our medic was, too, so Brena could volunteer to stay... and...”

  Angus’s eyes darkened. “Say what ye mean.”

  Gilead glanced at Deidre and then back to his father. “Mayhap, she wasna working alone. Mayhap someone else—”

  “Like Mori?” Angus’s voice was deadly calm, a sure sign of his anger.

  Gilead recognized it and took a deep breath. “Who else would want Mother—”

  “Ye listen to me,” Angus said as he advanced and stood almost nose-to-nose with his son. “It be true that Mori and I have always loved each other and intended to marry. But Fate was not kind. Mori accepted that. And I didna have to marry yer mother. I could have let her honor be tarnished for the trickery she used. I dinna. But this is what’s important and I’ll only say it once. When Mori and I took the Oath, we also made a pact. That if the gods were kind and let us be together, neither of us would seek to destroy the other’s marriage. And we’ve both honored that.”

  “Might I make a suggestion?” Deidre asked.

  Angus stopped glaring at his son and looked at her. “What?”

  “While Una is checking Brena’s room, could we have a look at the herb closet? Maybe we can find the poison.”

  Without bothering to answer, Angus spun on his heel and walked out, Deidre and Gilead at his heels. The closet was locked when they got there. Angus didn’t bother sending for Una and a second key. He stepped back and then rammed his shoulder forcefully against the door, splintering the frame.

  Pungent aromas assaulted their nostrils: the mustiness of herbs hanging upside down from the ceiling for drying, the sharp smell of eucalyptus from a corner of the tiny room, the muskier scent of sandalwood on a countertop. Deidre rummaged through small packets of herbs, sniffing each one, identifying only common garden varieties of rosemary, basil, bay leaf, and fennel. She picked up various small jars from a shelf, undoing the stoppers. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Even the motherwort that Brena used for her sleeping potion and the snakeroot for stomach upset were neatly labeled. Deidre sighed in disappointment.

  “I don’t see anything that could have caused such a quick and painful reaction.”

  Gilead looked up at a shelf near the ceiling, wondering why a shelf had been placed that high where a woman as small as Brena would need a stool to get up there. The wood looked to be somewhat newer than the other shelves, too. He stretched his hand along the top, encountering nothing but dust until he came to the very end. He touched something smooth and cold and pulled down a small vial of liquid.

  He undid the stopper and the smell of pine filled the room.

  Deidre’s eyes widened as she took the vial from him. “Hemlock!” She turned to Angus. “I’ve only had slight training in herbals, which is why I didn’t ever think of hemlock, but I know it can kill within the hour and death is painful. It can also,” she continued, frowning as she remembered her own mother’s healer speaking to the priestesses, “be administered a drop here and there to make a person weak and appear to be wasting away over time.”

  “Which is what happened to Mother,” Gilead exclaimed. “And it started happening shortly after Brena joined us!”

  Angus stared at them both for a minute and then bolted out the door, yelling for Adair and Calum as he strode into the bailey.

  “Ride after Turius,” he told his captain of the guard. “See if she somehow slipped out with them.” He turned to Calum. “Ride to Gabran. Tell him what we suspect and that Brena may likely try to return to her own clan on his lands. Tell him to take her captive if he finds her.”

  When his men rushed off to do his bidding, Angus laid a hand on Gilead’s shoulder. “I swear to ye, son, I will avenge yer mother. I owe her that.” He turned to Deidre. “Ye were her favorite. Would ye do her the honor of being with her while the body is prepared?”

  Deidre glanced askance at Gilead and he gave her a faint nod. “Mother would like that,” he said.

  ◊♦◊

  Somewhat numb from shock, Gilead walked slowly back into the Hall. Comgall, Dallis, and Drustan were seated at a table in the far corner and he joined them there.

  Comgall clasped his shoulder. “Ye have our condolences,” he said gruffly.

  “I’m so sorry,” Dallis said in her sweet voice and put a soft hand on his arm. “Drustan and I were trying to compose a fitting funeral dirge for Lady Elen.”

  “One that we could sing together,” Drustan added. “Dallis has a pretty voice and ’twould be fitting for her to honor her mother-in-law thus.”

  Gilead nodded miserably and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Niall enter and head toward them. He turned his back hoping the lout would take the hint and go away.

  “About the wedding,” Gilead began, “I doona see how I can marry now.”

  “Certes not,” Dalli
s agreed almost too quickly. “Ye are upset and need time to heal. I understand.”

  Gilead gave her a grateful look. Ironically, he had gotten his freedom. His mother’s death was an awful price to pay, but, in her passing, she had helped him avoid a war. Mother, ever the peacemaker, even in death.

  “What’s this?” Niall asked as he sat down, uninvited. “I hope ye doona expect me to postpone my wedding as well?”

  Gilead clenched his fists under the table while Dallis gasped and both Comgall and Drustan frowned at Niall. The man’s insensitivity knew no bounds, obviously. “There will be no marriages taking place anytime soon,” Gilead said in the same flat voice that spelled danger in his father.

  “I’ll be in charge of when I decide to marry!” Niall said furiously. “I can marry Deidre on my own property, ye know. Just have her be ready to leave on the morrow.”

  “Surely not, sir,” Dallis said softly. “She’ll want to attend the funeral.”

  “Aye,” Comgall added. “And if Gilead is willing to postpone his wedding, ye should be, too.” He looked at Gilead. “Lugnasad is day after today. How about Mabon, when the apples be ripe for good cider? Dallis loves the drink and ’twould give ye time to grieve.” When Gilead hesitated, he narrowed his eyes. “Unless ye doona want to wed my daughter at all?”

  “For certes, he does!” Angus said from behind Gilead.

  Gilead nearly jumped and then swore silently. He hadn’t heard his father approach, but that was one of Angus’s talents when he chose. And this would have been the perfect time to tell Comgall that he wasn’t ready. And yet, Niall had a gleam in his eye that told Gilead if he didn’t agree to a joint postponement, Niall just might make good on his threat to take Deidre. He sighed. He’d have to bide his time and try to reason with Comgall later.

  “I’ll think on Mabon.”

  At least he’d bought Deidre some time.

  ◊♦◊

  Niall cursed roundly as he saddled his horse to leave Cenel Oengus later that day. Elen was supposed to have been found dead before Turius left. He had counted on Formorian staying behind, in charge of the half century of soldiers Turius was leaving behind. Something had gone wrong there. Still, if that stubborn bitch, Deidre, had obeyed him and gone to check on Elen, he might have persuaded Formorian to stay and help settle the household. That was a woman’s job. He gave the cinch an extra hard pull and his horse laid its ears flat, but he ignored it. His little bitch would pay—and pay hard—once he was wedded to her.

  Having to wait for that pleasure infuriated him. Another two months! But short of abducting her—damn her, she always kept herself surrounded with people—there wasn’t much he could do. He pulled the stopper from the wineskin hooked on his saddle and took a healthy swig, wiping the back of his dripping mouth on his sleeve.

  A thought niggled at him, growing in intensity as he took another draught. Turius had taken four and a half centuries with him, leaving Angus with only fifty Britons and his own five hundred or so warriors. And Elen’s death would be unsettling as well, if not to Angus himself, certes to his ever-honorable son and the people who had cared about the woman. Even Niall couldn’t find much to dislike, except that she was weak and mealy-mouthed, in his opinion.

  The time was right for Fergus Mor finally to make his move. And Niall, while pretending to aid Angus, would be right behind him.

  He’d send the messenger tonight.

  ◊♦◊

  Gilead wasn’t surprised to learn, a sennight later, when Adair returned with the news, that Brena had indeed stowed away in one of Turius’s wagons. The bad news was that she had left the party shortly after, heading northwest.

  “She told Formorian that her mother ailed and she had to go home,” Adair said. “Doona fash. I’ve already dispatched another man to Gabran. He’ll be waiting for her.”

  Somehow, Gilead didn’t think she’d be captured so easily. She was wily. For the thousandth time since his mother’s funeral, he condemned himself for not seeing through the ruse before it was too late.

  At least Comgall had returned to his lands and taken Dallis with him. She had offered no protest when Gilead told her he would not be good company for a long while. And indeed, he had hardly spoken to her, trusting Drustan to escort her to the funeral and the feast that followed it. Thank the gods for Drus; it allowed him to wallow in his grief while appeasing her father.

  Deidre was the only one he wanted near, but Una kept her busy all day and most evenings, too. Janet and Sheila had returned to their own clans after Elen’s death, and Una had handed their responsibilities over to Deidre with Angus’s blessing. She’d have to learn to run a household, his father had said.

  So Gilead was already in a foul, black mood several days later when a rider from Comgall came flying through the gates, his horse near foundering.

  The man half-jumped, half-fell off his horse before it had even stopped. “Fergus Mor,” he burst out. “He’s moving through the outlands of Gunpar’s territory. I’m but a scarce day or two ahead of him.”

  ◊♦◊

  Deidre watched in dismay the hustle and bustle of men preparing for war. The jingle of harnesses and the creaking of leather mingled with the clanging of metal as swords were sharpened and maces and spikes hung on to saddles. So soon after Elen’s death, she didn’t think Gilead was mentally prepared to fight and she feared for him. Angus, on the other hand, was driven as though possessed by demons. War seemed to give him a sense of purpose. He was everywhere, inspecting weapons, encouraging the youngest of soldiers to buck up and heartily slapping the veterans on their backs. The men roused to him, bragging on how many kills they’d make and how quickly Fergus would be subdued. How many would not be returning? She prayed Gilead would not be among the fallen.

  Deidre sighed and wandered into the walled herbal garden. She and Meara had made a sort of peace, or truce, perhaps, and Deidre had taken to gathering herbs daily for the evening meal.

  A shadow fell across her path as she leaned over a row of sweet basil. She looked up to see Niall standing in the small doorway, blocking the entrance. She straightened, keeping a wary eye on him. He had ridden over this morning, all assurances that his troops were ready to ride with Angus, but she had been able to ignore him successfully. Until now.

  He moved forward, keeping himself between her and the door. Deidre took a step back.

  “That’s no way to treat yer betrothed,” Niall said with a sneer. “Here I am, going off to fight and it’s only a wee kiss I’m wanting.”

  “No. Please leave, I have things to do.”

  “Aye. Things to do. Like kiss me,” he said and lunged toward her, grabbing both arms and drawing her against him. He rubbed his chest against her breasts and laughed. “Ye feel good. I canna wait to bed ye.”

  The odor of his unwashed body nearly overcame her. Deidre pushed against him. “Let me go!”

  “Nae! Not until ye’ve kissed me. Proper, too.”

  “No!” Deidre raised her knee but he swerved and she only caught his hip. But his grip had loosened momentarily and she jerked her arm away, tearing the sleeve in the process.

  He grabbed at her dress, catching the bodice and ripping it down the front. “Mayhap I will take more than a kiss, at that.”

  She struggled, turning her head away, lips firmly closed, fighting with all her might to keep him from kissing her. With all the noise in the bailey from the preparations, no one would even hear her scream, and besides, she wasn’t about to open her mouth.

  “Ye’re taking yer sweet time out here,” Meara grumbled as she entered the garden and then stopped and gaped.

  Surprised, Niall whipped his head around and Deidre broke his hold, stumbling for the safety of Meara’s skirts and the door.

  The cook held up the slender, lethally sharp paring knife that they used to cut herbs. “Ye’d forgotten this,” she said to Deidre, “but it looks like ye might need it for another purpose.” She glared at Niall and he fell back. “Do ye want to take me o
n?”

  Niall glowered at both of them and clenched a fist. For a moment Deidre thought he would actually try to strike them, but Meara adjusted her stance and held up the blade. He let out a string of curses and pushed past them toward the bailey.

  “Thank you,” Deidre said when he had gone.

  Meara grunted, an unbecoming pink color seeping upward from her neck. “A man doesna have the right to force ye.” And then she turned without another word and walked back to the kitchens.

  Deidre clasped the pieces of her torn bodice together and brushed back the hair that had come loose from her braid. She skirted the edge of the garden wall, staying in the shadow of the main Hall until she came to the rear entrance. Thankful that no one had seen her in this unkempt state, she reached for the door handle just as it opened and Gilead stepped through.

  He took in her disheveled appearance—the torn sleeve and ripped gown that nearly exposed an entire breast—and wrapped his arms around her, one hand smoothing her hair and the other stroking her back gently.

  “Niall did this?”

  Deidre nodded and buried her face on his shoulder, her knees suddenly jellied. Gilead’s clean scent of soap and spice mingled with the leather of his hauberk was such a contrast to Niall, and Gilead felt so solid and warm and safe. Tears began to fall as she clung to him, fingers entwined in his hair.

  “I’ll finish this,” Gilead said as he soothed her. “I’ll call the bastard out.”

  “You can’t.” Deidre sniffled in an attempt to stop crying and leaned back, bringing her hand to his cheek. “It would be an affront to Dallis.”

  “I doona care,” Gilead answered. “Niall has gone too far. Let me get ye into the house and then I’ll find him.”

  “No, Gilead. Please. Your father has said often enough how he needs the alliances. He’ll need Comgall to protect his flank and fall in behind him. You can’t insult the man by offering for me. Not now.”

  Gilead looked unconvinced.

  “Please,” Deidre said and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. He gathered her tightly to him, his mouth slanting over hers, passion building as she parted her lips and invited him in to explore her mouth fully. Their tongues swirled round each other and Gilead deepened the kiss until they were both panting and gasping for air.