by Ruth Langan
“Come.” Their host offered his arm to his daughter, relieved that the Highlanders had managed to suppress their anger, at least for the moment. “We will sup.”
With Leonora beside him, Lord Waltham led the way to the head table, which resided on a raised platform at one end of the hall. At this table would sit the bishop, as well as the honored guests from Scotland.
At the next tables sat the nobles, and the local dignitaries from the nearby villages, who had been invited to witness this historic visit between the Scots and English. At the far end of the room sat the soldiers, who had grown unusually quiet since the arrival of their old enemy, the Highlanders.
“Dillon, I would be pleased if you would take the seat of honor beside my daughter.” Lord Waltham indicated a wooden bench that ran the length of the table.
As they were seated, Leonora felt the brush of Dillon’s thigh against hers and reacted as if she’d been burned.
With a look of alarm Lord Waltham turned to her. “Are you in some discomfort, daughter?”
“Nay, Father.” She felt Dillon’s gaze upon her and cursed the heat that flooded her cheeks. “I am merely—” she struggled with her scrambled thoughts “—concerned that this first meal please our guests.”
Looking past her to Dillon and his brothers, Lord Waltham explained, “Since the death of her mother, Leonora has taken charge of my many households and performed admirably. She is becoming a young woman of many accomplishments.”
“Then you are indeed blessed, Lord Waltham.” Dillon pinned her with a look that brought even more color to her cheeks. “A woman of beauty, charm and accomplishment brings honor to her father and joy to her husband.”
Leonora was relieved when the servants began offering the first course. Huge silver trays of salmon were passed among the guests, followed by platters of beef and whole roasted pigs. There were baskets of hot, crusty bread, and silver bowls of thick gruel into which the bread was dipped. With each course, serving wenches kept tankards filled with ale and mead, a sweet, honey-laced brew.
At a signal from their host, musicians, standing on a gallery high above the tables, began to play.
Leonora was uncomfortably aware of the man beside her, who ate with obvious relish. Studying his hands as he broke off a piece of bread, she found herself remembering the feel of those same hands on hers. Such strength. And yet his manner with her had been surprisingly gentle.
“More mead, my lady?” She jumped at the sound of his deep voice beside her.
“Forgive me. I—”
Without waiting for her reply, he filled her goblet, then his own, and handed the empty decanter to a serving wench.
“You ate very little, my lady.”
“I find I have no appetite.”
He smiled. “Perhaps it is the company you are forced to keep.”
There was no returning smile in her eyes. “Do you mock me, sir?”
“Nay, my lady.” Though he wiped the smile from his lips, it was there in his eyes, in the warmth of his tone, causing her own anger to deepen. “One need only look at you to see that you are…delighted to serve your king in such a manner.” He allowed his gaze to sweep the crowded hall. “As are all of your guests.”
He studied Alger Blakely, whose gaze was narrowed on him. Even from this distance, Dillon could detect Alger’s scowl. It was obvious the young soldier was smitten by the lady’s charms, and unnerved by the distance that separated them.
“I would die for my king.” Leonora lifted her chin in a defiant gesture.
“Aye, my lady. A noble sentiment. But entertaining the enemy is far less noble, is it not?” His eyes twinkled with amusement. “And far more vexing.”
“It is you who are vex—”
“Sweets, my lord?” Verda, the serving girl, thrust a silver tray between Leonora and Dillon and gazed adoringly into his dark eyes.
“I will let the lady choose first.”
Leonora looked away in disgust. “I desire no sweets.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider, my lady.” Dillon’s voice was laced with humor. “’Tis said they sweeten the disposition.”
Her eyes flashed fire, but with considerable effort she managed to keep her voice low. “It is plain to see that my father will not be dealing with honorable gentlemen.”
“You would prefer the sly humor of the Duke of Essex, perhaps?”
So, he had indeed overheard all of the insults hurled by Essex, and not just the last, uttered with such contempt. She felt ashamed that anyone, even this Highland savage, should be so mistreated in her father’s house.
Knowing he’d hit a nerve, Dillon continued, “Or would you prefer the silly flattery of Alger Blakely, my lady? Are these the Englishmen of honor you would have me imitate?”
“You go too far, sir.”
“Nay. Not nearly far enough. Do not think I am fooled by these—”
“Ale, my lord? Or mead?” Verda, having handed the sweets tray to another, was determined to win the attention of the handsome stranger. She hovered next to him with a flagon in her hand.
“Aye, ale. I have a need to quench the fire that rages within.” When his tankard was full, he lifted it to his lips and drained it, then waited while Verda filled it again.
“I will return soon, my lord, and see that your tankard is never empty.” The serving wench gave him a wink as she strolled away with a sway of hips guaranteed to catch the eye of every man in the room.
Seeing it, Leonora turned away in disgust.
Getting to his feet, Lord Waltham lifted his tankard and called for attention. When the voices had stilled, and all eyes were upon him, he said loudly, “We drink to our guests from across the border. May we find common ground, where battles will cease, and peace prevail.”
For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence. Then, slowly, one by one, the men in the room shuffled to their feet and lifted their tankards aloft. When every Englishman was standing, Dillon and his brothers followed suit. Tankards were drained, and the men began pounding them on the tabletops to get the attention of the serving wenches.
Lord Waltham signaled to the musicians, who began to play once more. A jester stepped up on the platform and began to juggle colored balls, to the amazement of the crowd. When he had finished, and picked up the coins scattered around the floor, more toasts were made, until, replete, warmed by the ale and the blazing fires on the hearths, the men began drifting from the great hall to the upper floors where they would seek their sleeping pallets.
“I trust you have had sufficient food and ale,” Lord Waltham asked his guests as they pushed away from the table.
“Aye.” Dillon was careful not to stand too close to Leonora, lest she bristle at his touch. “My compliments to you, my lady, and you, Lord Waltham. It was a meal that would have pleased even your monarch. And now, my brothers and I bid you a good evening.”
Leonora stood beside her father and watched as the three giants walked away. Those few soldiers who had remained by the fire fell silent and turned to watch them pass. The Highlanders looked neither right nor left, but stared straight ahead as they strode purposefully from the great hall.
“What think you of our guests, Father?”
Lord Waltham continued to watch until the three were out of sight. Then he turned to her.
“I think,” he said softly, “they are not at all what they seem. We would be wise to treat our Scottish neighbors with respect. Our future, our very lives, may be in the hands of this Highlander, Dillon Campbell.”
Chapter Three
Dillon paced the floor of the sitting chamber. In the next room, his brothers could be heard arguing. The door to their sleeping chamber was suddenly yanked open, and Shaw entered carrying an armload of bed linens.
“What are you doing?” Dillon asked.
“Sutton has ordered me out of the chamber. I will sleep in here beside the fire.”
“Why?”
Shaw shrugged and stared pointedly at the floor. “You wi
ll have to ask him yourself.”
Storming into the room, Dillon said, “What foolishness is this? Why have you sent your own brother from this chamber?”
“The wench, Verda, has offered to warm my bed.” From a basin, Sutton splashed water on his face and chest, and dried himself with a square of linen.
Dillon’s eyes narrowed. “And you agreed?”
Sutton blushed. From the time he was a mere lad, women had been his greatest weakness. But, as he had often had to explain to Father Anselm whenever he’d arrived at the monastery late for vespers, it was not his fault that women young and old threw themselves at his feet. There was just something about him that caused such things to happen.
“She said she is quite taken with me. She personally saw that my tankard was never empty. And she fed me the finest cuts of meat from the platter.”
“The wench would do the same for a dog if he had a fine pallet that she could share.” Dillon stormed back into the sitting chamber and picked up the bed linens, flinging them through the open doorway.
“But she said she liked the way I look,” Sutton shouted.
Dillon stood in the doorway, legs far apart, hands on hips. “And for the sake of a little flattery, you would let an English servant endanger all our lives?”
Sutton looked astonished. “You think one small female could bring us harm?”
“One small dagger, perfectly aimed by the female’s hand, is all it would take to snuff out your life while you slept beside her, Sutton. Is the wench worth the risk?”
His brother ran a hand through his hair, then looked away. “I was not thinking. I…peered down her bodice and…”
“So did every man in that room,” Dillon said with a sigh. “’Twas as she planned it. The wench is well aware of her charms, and how to use them.” Dillon smiled. “But remember, brother, we are not here for pleasure. We represent our countrymen. Every Englishman we meet will judge all Scots by the way we behave.”
His brother began to relax. Though Dillon’s temper was legend, he had learned, after years of effort, to curb it in favor of humor.
“Forgive me.” Sutton shook his head. “I give you my word, Dillon. When the wench knocks this night, my door will be barred to her.” He held out his hand.
Dillon nodded his approval and crossed the room to accept his brother’s handshake.
“Now, Dillon, tell us what you think of the Englishmen,” Shaw said as he began to hastily remake his sleeping pallet. He was relieved that his older brother had intervened. His twin’s easy way with the women was often difficult for Shaw to take. Especially since he had chosen a life of celibacy for himself.
Dillon poured a goblet of ale from a flagon and took a seat by the fire. “Lord Alec Waltham seems an honorable man. The king has chosen wisely. Our host will set the tone of the meetings that begin on the morrow. George Godwin, the Duke of Essex, on the other hand, is obviously unhappy with this meeting. I think he will do all in his power to see that the peace council fails.”
“You will challenge him?”
“I will.”
“How?”
Dillon’s tone remained as easy as if they were discussing the weather. But his brothers heard the threat underlying the words. “It will all depend upon Essex and what he chooses to do.”
“What of the aged man who walks with a cane?”
“Lord John Forest, the king’s own counsel, is more difficult to discern. He seems a cautious man, and one who will decide only after all the terms have been agreed upon.”
“What of the Blakelys, father and son?” Shaw asked.
Dillon’s hand closed imperceptibly around the stem of the goblet. “Lord James Blakely is shrewd. And a soldier. Those two traits make him a dangerous opponent. He has learned to keep his true feelings hidden until he is upon the field of battle. But this much I know. As a soldier, he will gain nothing by a peace between our two countries.”
“His son, Alger, is also a soldier,” Shaw said.
“Aye. But he is too blinded by his heart, which shines from his eyes.”
Shaw smiled. “I saw the way he kept you and the lady Leonora in his line of vision throughout the evening. The poor dolt is in love.”
“But does he love the lady,” Sutton asked with a chuckle, “or the lady’s dowry? Judging by her father’s estates, ’twould be considerable.”
“It is of no concern to us.” Dillon gave a shrug of his shoulders. “It is enough to know that Alger Blakely will do whatever pleases the lady. And the lady is a dutiful daughter. Though she mistrusts us, she will do all in her power to bring about the success of her father’s mission for his king.”
“What of the bishop?” Sutton asked.
Dillon glanced at their brother Shaw, who was pledged to the Church. “I mean no disrespect, but the Bishop of York, though a man of God, seems no more than a puppet. A lifetime of ease and comfort, enjoying the friendship of the king, has blinded him to truth. I think he will put aside moral judgments and follow wherever the others lead.”
“Then what chance have we of succeeding?” Shaw asked as he climbed between the covers. “The only Englishman who is on our side is Lord Alec Waltham.”
“We are Highland warriors, sent by Robert the Bruce, at the invitation of the King of England.” Dillon stood, placed the empty goblet on a table, then strode to the door. Both his brothers were already in their pallets. Fueled by their arduous journey and the amount of food and ale consumed during the evening’s feast, their eyes were heavy with the need for sleep. “All our lives, we have been outnumbered. But we have always kept our goals clearly in our line of vision.” His tone lowered. “If King Edward’s emissaries are like-minded, we will return to Scotland with the fragile hope for peace between our countries still alive.”
“Aye.” Sutton stifled a yawn, while Shaw gave in to the need for sleep. “On the morrow, then, the tale will be told.”
Dillon smiled and closed the door, knowing that his brothers were already dreaming. Though the hour was late, he had no desire to sleep. Pausing before the fire, he thought again about the men with whom he would be dealing.
Throughout his life, he had nurtured a hatred for all things English. He touched a hand to the thin scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. That hatred had heated his blood through many a cold winter, and had driven him to become the fiercest warrior in all of Scotland.
Now the fates had decreed that he would be the one to talk of peace. At first, it had stuck in his throat like a stone. But now, slowly, rationally, though it was still bitter, he had begun to swallow it, and even to accept the taste. Peace. Though he still burned with the need to avenge the murders of his father and mother and his entire clan, he would try, for the sake of his younger brothers and sister, and the generations of the Clan Campbell not yet born, to put the hatred to rest.
The morrow would tell the tale. If these English were willing to deal fairly, he would do the same.
Feeling restless, he tossed his cloak over his shoulders and strode from the room. A walk in the garden was just what he needed to clear his head before attempting sleep.
Leonora sat on a stone bench, listening to the sounds of the night. Insects hummed and chirped. A night bird cried as it swooped past like a dark shadow.
Looking up at the stars, she felt a wave of loneliness. Always, in times of crises, she missed her mother. That good woman would have known just what to say to make these strangers feel welcome. She would have offered wise counsel to her husband, who could be heard pacing in his chambers before Leonora had stolen away into the garden. She chewed on her lip. Her mother would have known how to soothe the tensions between her own countrymen and these strangers in their midst. And most important of all, she would have known just how to ease her daughter’s fears.
Fear. Aye. Fear and—more. What was it about this savage, Dillon Campbell, that had her so unnerved? Even at Westminster, pitted against royals and noblemen, she had never felt so out of her element. There, at least, s
he could rely on propriety and good manners. But here, in the company of this man, she had no rules to guide her.
Hearing a footfall, she got to her feet, expecting to see one of her father’s soldiers. Instead, she found herself face-to-face with the man who had just been occupying so many of her thoughts.
She lifted a hand to her throat. “You…startled me.”
Dillon studied the figure in the hooded cloak, who blended in with the shadowed hedges and trees. “Forgive me, my lady. I had expected to be alone in the garden at such an hour.” He glanced around. “Is it safe for you to be here?”
She felt offended by such a question. “You ask if I am safe in my father’s own keep? I assure you, if someone wished me harm, they would face the wrath of a hundred soldiers who stand guard.”
“The soldiers have been fortified with wine, my lady. Even now, they lie asleep. If someone wished you harm, you would be helpless to defend yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you try to frighten me with talk of savagery? Is this the way of your people?”
He gave a sigh of impatience. This female was as unpleasant as the rest of her countrymen. “I do not wish to make you uneasy, my lady. It is just that, in my country, the women no longer feel safe even within the walls of a keep.”
“And why is that, sir? Have your men become so depraved that they would attack even helpless women?”
His tone deepened with anger. “It is not my men they fear. It is yours, my lady.”
He made a move to walk past her, but her hand shot out, catching the sleeve of his cloak. She would teach this savage manners while he was under the roof of civilized men. “You would accuse noble Englishmen of attacking innocent women?”
Without a word, he stared down at the offending hand. Almost at once she removed it. The look in his eyes caused her to take a step back.
“Aye. And helpless children, as well.”
Had she not been so angry, she would have recognized, by the thickened burr, the deep well of anger in his words. But her own temper was propelling her to disregard common sense.