by Diana Cosby
“I thank you.” The noble shuddered again, and then gasped. His eyes grew fixed.
With the flickering images of his youth fading, Aiden closed his lids. Mouth set, he stood, found his men approaching.
“Is he dead?” Cailin asked.
Aiden nodded. “His name was Bróccín MacRaith, Earl of Balfour. Incredibly, long ago we were friends. Now, unknown to him, ’twould seem we are enemies.”
“A Comyn supporter,” Rónán said with a grimace. “A bloody shame.”
“’Tis the way of war.” Aiden shoved his sadness behind his carefully built wall, having lost too many friends throughout the years to allow the hurt to burrow deeper. “Yet, he has presented us an unexpected opportunity. Twould seem the earl was betrothed to Lady Gwendolyn Murphy and was en route to marry her.”
Cailin arched a curious brow. “What has a wedding to do with our gaining information for the king’s upcoming attack on Latharn Castle?”
“The lady in question,” Aiden replied with a wry smile, “is the stronghold’s mistress.”
Rónán frowned. “’Tis a most unusual coincidence, but that knowledge does nay much to aid us.”
“It wouldna,” Aiden agreed, “except before he died, the noble admitted that he hadna meet the lass before.”
Cailin’s eyes widened. “God’s blade, you are nae thinking of taking his place?”
The thrill of the unknown filled him, and Aiden clung to the danger, a way of life he thrived upon. “I am,” he replied. “I swore to deliver this betrothal writ, a promise I shall keep. Except as the lass has never met Bróccín MacRaith, ’twill be a simple task to play the part of her suitor for a few days. Once we have the information we need, we will slip away and share with King Robert all we have learned.”
“We?” Rónán asked.
“Aye,” Aiden said with flourish, enjoying crafting the story. “The Earl of Balfour and two of his stalwart knights escaped the ruthless attack of King Robert’s men.”
A frown deepened in Rónán’s brow. “A brilliant plan, except your memories of the earl were those of a lad. You didna know the man, or if his betrothed was accepting of the betrothal, nae to mention if anyone at the castle might have known him.”
Aiden shrugged. “I have heard that the earl is a warrior to fear, and that knowledge will suffice for the meager time we will remain at the stronghold. Other concerns are nothing against the information we can glean of the castle’s defenses. Details that against an otherwise impenetrable fortress, will assure our king a swift victory.”
“And what of the lass?” Cailin asked. “With her anticipating marriage, she will expect a courtship.”
“A task that will be naught but a minor distraction,” Aiden said. “Before Bróccín died, he confessed that the lass is fair to look upon.”
Rónán chuckled. “Wooing her might be a pleasant diversion.”
Far from amused at the jest, Aiden lowered his hands to his side. “My intent is to gain information for our king, naught more,” Aiden snapped. “Though the Knights Templar are secretly dissolved, my allegiance remains with the Brotherhood.”
The humor in his men’s eyes fled. “Never will I forgive King Philip’s treachery,” Cailin said.
Rónán gave a curt nod. “Nor I.”
The French king’s duplicity burned in Aiden’s gut. The bastard had betrayed the Templars. The knights had guarded him over the years, loyalty he’d rewarded with deceit. Almost a year had passed since Aiden and the other Templars had sailed from La Rochelle, yet each time he thought of the French sovereign’s treachery, fury blackened his soul.
He glanced at the muscled knights at his side, men who he’d fought alongside in many a battle, Templars who he would give his life to protect. “We will map the layout of the castle grounds, take stock of stores, the number of guards, and other details imperative to plan a successful attack.”
“Mayhap,” Cailin said, “we can discover a secret entry.”
The twisting in Aiden’s gut eased. “Aye. I find it hard to believe that a hidden tunnel doesna exist, and I am convinced my betrothed would know of it.”
“What will happen to the lass once our king seizes her stronghold?” Rónán asked.
Aiden shrugged. “If she is as beautiful as Bróccín claimed, ’twill be a simple task for King Robert to find a nobleman willing to wed her.
“Mayhap the lass will have an admirable spirit that will catch the king’s notice,” Cailin said with a smile, “and like Stephan and Thomas, our sovereign will guide you down a wedding path.”
“With the demands on the king’s time,” Aiden said, his voice cool, “I doubt he will meet Lady Gwendolyn much longer than to learn her name and decide upon an appropriate match.” Refusing to entertain the topic further, he stowed the writ, then glanced to his dead friend. “We bury Bróccín, then ride to Latharn Castle.”
* * *
Wind thick with the scent of the sea whipped against Lady Gwendolyn Murphy. She aimed her dagger, threw.
Thunk.
A deep chuckle sounded to her right. “I dinna think your betrothed would be praising your skill, my lady.”
“As if I care what he thinks.” She glanced at the well-armed knight leaning against a nearby rock. At the humor in her friend’s eyes, she took in the rough charcoal outline of a man on the nearby sun-bleached limb, her blade lodged in the center of the crudely shaded heart.
“I know you are upset with Lord Comyn’s dictate to marry,” Sir Pieres continued, “but with the Earl of Balfour occupied with the upkeep of his numerous holdings, as well as his strategic meetings along with combat for your liege lord, ’tis said he is often away.”
Scowling Gwendolyn walked over and jerked her blade free. “If I didna need Comyn’s guard, I would keep the gates barred and deny the earl entry.”
“If you wish, that could be arranged.”
The lazy teasing in her friend’s voice prodded a smile. “You would do that for me, would you nae?”
Pieres’s expression grew serious. “My lady, I would give my life to protect you.”
Humbled, she shook her head. “Nor would I ask such.”
Eyes dark with concern, he walked over. “’Tis said your betrothed is a hard man, one feared by many, but those beneath his command give him their respect.”
She smothered the roll of nerves. “And you tell me this because?”
“You need truth, nay wisps of fancy. That the Earl of Balfour earns respect from his men indicates however strict his rule, he is fair and his dictates given with reason. His success in battle along with the praise earned from Lord Comyn reflects his cunning as a warrior.”
She gave a curt nod.
“My lady, Lord Balfour is a man of war and willna tolerate defiance on any level.” Expression grim, he paused. “With your headstrong ways, I ask that you tread with care. You could do far worse.”
“A warning?” Furious he’d feel the situation warranted such, or that the time had come in her life where she’d need such advice, she stalked to where she’d drawn a line in the sand; turned; threw. A chunk of the charcoal stained heart tore free as the dagger sank deep. “I am nae a fool.”
“Nay. You are a woman whom any man would be blessed to have as their wife, but sadly, many nobles dinna want anything from a woman beyond an heir.”
She again jerked her weapon free. “I willna be cast aside in my own castle, treated as if I were naught but a scullery maid fit only for the bedding. I need no husband.”
Sir Pieres remained silent, the worry in his gaze easy to read.
Frustrated, she sheathed her dagger, turned toward the waves sliding up the shore to toss about stones and shells within the tangled rush. Water sloshed against her boots as if laying siege, like the intruder whom she would pledge her life.
Bedamn this entire situation! “If only I could think of a way to convince him to nae wed.”
Firm steps crunched on the
sand. Pieres paused at her side. “There isna.”
The exasperation in his voice matched her own. “I know.” She wanted to scream at the injustice of losing her home to a stranger. In the weeks since the writ had arrived announcing her betrothal, she had tried to think of a way, often with Pieres’s aid, of negating the union, and at every turn, had failed.
With her heart in her throat, Gwendolyn picked up a fragment of shell abandoned by the sea. She weighed the fragile piece in her hand as the damnable frustrations all but smothered her. “Over the years my father would bring me here and tell me of his dreams, or talk about mine. He never laughed at what I shared, but encouraged me to achieve any goal that I could envision.”
“He was an extraordinary man.”
“Aye, he was.” Emotion welled in her throat, and she fought the swell of grief. “W-When my mother died during my youth,” she breathed, “’twas here that my father consoled me, and years later, where he asked me to marry Lord Purcell to strengthen our bonds with our neighboring clan.”
Pieres’s mouth tightened. “Your father was wrong to have forced you into a marriage, more so to a man who was a fool to nae notice what an incredible woman you are.”
The soft fury in his voice left her humbled. Her fingers curled against the memories of how she pushed away his tender advances since their childhood. However much she’d wished otherwise, never had she felt more than friendship, nor would she dishonor him by offering him false hope. She prayed one day he would find a woman who could give him the love he deserved.
“And ’twas on this stretch of sand,” Pieres continued, drawing her from her musings, “that you learned of your husband’s death but a month after you had wed.”
She grimaced. “I was foolish enough to believe that I would never again have to marry a man for duty. With my father’s blessing, I believed that I could live the life I wished.” Anger twisted inside, and Gwendolyn gave a cold laugh. “Yet with my father’s death, I have once again become naught but chattel.”
“I am sorry.”
Mouth tight, Gwendolyn cast the fragment into the incoming wave. The battered shell that’d once held life tumbled beneath the current and was swept out to sea. Like the shell, she was merely a pawn to those who held power.
“I will do my duty and wed Lord Balfour,” she said, “for my people’s protection along with that of my home, but I willna tolerate being treated as a half-wit.” She started toward the castle. “’Tis time I checked on Kellan.”
Pieres said as he fell in alongside. “With her girth, I would have thought she would have foaled by now?”
“As I. This morning I found her pacing in her stall. I expect the colt will come this day.”
Warmth touched her as she started toward the cave accessible only during low tide, remembering when the coal-black mare was born, and of how her father had gifted her with the steed. Now Kellan would have a babe of her own.
“I want to be with her when her foal is born,” she said. “I wish my father was alive. I—”
She stumbled, and Pieres caught her, turned her toward him. “I am here.”
“I know,” she said with a rough whisper, thankful for his friendship. “I still struggle with his death even though half a year has passed.”
“A horrible day,” her friend said, his words quiet, “but he died a warrior’s death fighting for—”
A horse’s neigh sounded in the distance.
The slide of steel upon leather hissed as Sir Pieres withdrew his sword. “Hurry inside the secret tunnel.”
Gwendolyn removed her dagger, far from convinced. “If there was danger, we would have heard warning shouts from the castle guards.” She scanned the lull of land and rock above that led to the castle’s entrance.
Three riders came into sight.
Relief flooded Gwendolyn. A larger force would ride beneath the Earl of Balfour’s standard.
The trio of riders halted before the gate.
Even from this distance, she noted the lead warrior. Broad shoulders. Confident. A shiver of unease rippled through her.
“Do you think ’tis your betrothed?”
She shook her head. “The writ stated the earl would arrive with a sizable contingent of men. I suspect ’tis but knights traveling through.”
A faint echo of a man’s voice reached her.
A guard’s voice rang out. A clank sounded, then the slow rattle of the portcullis.
Gwendolyn relaxed. Whatever the traveler had shared with her guard, they werena a threat.
A frown tightened on her lips as she rushed toward the secret tunnel. With King Robert’s determination to unite Scotland, how many years would pass before their country found peace? She damned the war, the struggle for power that claimed too many innocent lives.
She inhaled to settle her nerves, then focused on the upcoming birth of her prize mare. “I wish the groom was here was here. ’Tis Kellan’s first foal, and ’twould ease me to know she is in Edmund’s competent hands.”
Inside the cave, Pieres lit a candle. Golden light cut through the blackness, the walls slick with moisture drenched moss, and the sandy path scattered with wave-smoothed pebbles.
He raised the taper, started down the tunnel. “MacDuf has observed Edmund many times as he helped to ease a mare’s birthing process.”
“He has. But a few months studying beneath Edmund’s skilled guidance hardly gives MacDuf the expertise he needs.”
A short while later the smell of hay and horse filled the air as Gwendolyn stepped into the stable.
Pieres slid the hidden entry shut behind them, nodded. “I will check on who has arrived.”
“I thank you.” Afternoon sunlight flickered over her friend’s shoulders as he entered the baily.
A snort sounded from the corner stall.
Warmth spilled through her at thoughts of the newborn foal, and she hurried over. “How fares Kellan?”
“She has begun birthing,” MacDuf replied.
At the worry in the stable hand’s voice, her chest tightened. She slipped inside the stall.
Heavy with foal, the mare trudged around the stall, her laden steps cushioned beneath the bed of straw. She nickered, half collapsed to her side, rolled, then shoved back to her feet and once more paced.
“Easy girl,” Gwendolyn soothed as she stroked the coal-black beauty’s velvety muzzle. “How long has she been acting like this?”
MacDuf rubbed the back of his neck. “A short while after you left.”
The mare tossed her head and half reared. As her feet hit the floor, her entire body shook. On a whinny, she again dropped to her knees, fell to one side, and then rolled.
“There should be some sign that the foal is coming by now,” MacDuf said, his voice raw with worry. “I…I fear the foal is turned around inside her.”
Ice slid through Gwendolyn’s veins. She fisted her hands against the horrific stories of a mare’s screams as she suffered during a difficult foaling, of the loss of blood, trauma that could leave the mother and foal dead.
Male voices echoed from the stable entry, but she ignored them and damned her lack of knowledge, a fact she would remedy after this day. “Surely Edmund has attended such difficult births in the past?” she forced out.
A ruddy hue swept the man’s face. “Aye,” the stable hand agreed, “but none after he began instructing me.”
There had to be a way to help her! Anger at her helplessness nearly strangled Gwendolyn as she knelt beside the horse. Hand trembling, she stroked her sweat slicked neck. Please God, dinna let her die.
The mare snorted, kicked.
Gwendolyn ducked the slash of hooves, terrified as the mare again began to squeal in distress. “Fetch the healer. Delivering a foal canna be any more different than a babe.”
“Aye, my lady.” Steps slapped as MacDuf bolted toward the keep.
On a tormented scream, the horse tried to struggle to her feet, collapsed. Froth
slid from her ebony coat.
Tears burned Gwendolyn’s eyes at her each snort, her whinny of distress.
The hooves of the horse again slashed, missing her by a hand.
An ache built in her chest as she reached over to try and relax the mare. “The healer will be here—”
Behind her the gate scraped open. “Get away from her,” a deep voice ordered.
Stunned at the harsh command, Gwendolyn glanced up.
A hulking man with raven black hair towered above her. His green eyes riveted on her with unyielding authority. “Move!”
She slammed her brows together. “I willna—”
With a muttered curse, the stranger hauled her up, and shoved her aside. “Cailin, Rónán, help me get the mare on her feet!”
Shaking with outrage, Gwendolyn elbowed her way past the two burly knights and glared up at the beast. “How dare you—”
“We are trying to save her life,” he growled in fierce warning as he shifted to the horse’s chest. The warrior’s muscled arms bulged as he and his men worked in unison to shove the mare to her feet. Inhaling, he glared at Gwendolyn. “If you want to be useful, lass, go stand by her head and talk to her while I deliver the foal.”
Shaking with anger at the braggart, she straightened her shoulders, her fists curling at her sides, then stilled at the deftness of his actions, and his quick decisions. Whoever he was, he knew what he was about.
“I have the foal’s foot,” he called a moment later.
Kellan screamed a strangled nicker then shifted.
The formidable stranger’s mouth tightened. “Keep the mare still!”
Hooves scraped across the bed of straw. On a strangled whinny, Kellan started to step back.
“God’s sword, hold her!” the fierce warrior roared.
Muscles flexed as his men complied.
Distant footsteps slapped upon the dirt.
Gwendolyn glanced out the entry to see the healer and MacDuf running across the baily toward them.
“’Tis done,” the stranger called out. “Let her go.”