by Kris Tualla
“Aye…” Kennan twisted in his saddle.
“We’ll need a week here. Then another week to get to London, if the weather is as expected.”
“Aye.”
“Well, the truth is, I’ve no desire to Christmas in London. David isn’t the most pleasant of companions. And I doubt he’ll be pleased with what we’ve found.”
“No, Sir. ‘Tis been a round of misery and that’s sure.” Kennan crossed himself.
Drew pulled a heavy sigh. “I’m going to have to be bold with him and describe the worst of what we’ve seen if he’s to believe it. And if he’s to understand why his ransom has no’ been raised. To consider doing so puts me off the Christmas mood.”
Kennan grunted his agreement. “What are ye thinking, my lord?”
“I’m thinking… well, I’m thinking Castleton might be a good place to rest. To regain our strength. Ponder Christmas in the aftermath of such devastation.”
“Aye, there’s many that have given up on the Church.” Kennan scratched his chin. “Can’t say as I blame them.”
“Well, Rome’s troubles are no’ mine.” Drew turned his steed toward Castleton’s main street. “I’m merely tired and discouraged. This was a fearsome hard task we were given.”
“As ye said, thank God it’s the last town.” Kennan looked at him. “I wouldn’t mind biding here a month. It would do a body good.”
“Then I shall inform the Lady Bell that we are resting with her for a week past Christmas.” The decision warmed his chest. The day appeared brighter as if the sun blessed his plans. Drew straightened in his saddle and pulled his cloak back to display his sword. “Are ye ready to amaze the peasants?”
Kennan grinned at him. “There is the one bit of fun in our lives, eh?”
As the elegantly dressed pair rode their enormous destriers through the town, heads turned, jaws dropped, and eyes widened. They rode slowly and Drew nodded solemnly to those they passed. This was an important part of what they needed to do: establish their authority. First by impressing the townspeople with the visible power and obvious wealth of a knight, then by using both the name of their king and his position.
It never failed.
Drew’s gaze evaluated the town; it wasn’t as bad as some he’d seen. New thatches were going onto roofs. Broken shutters were being replaced. While several buildings stood empty, many showed evidence of cleaning; someone planned to make use of them.
The men stopped in front of the tavern. When they dismounted, Drew flipped a coin to an adolescent boy. “Watch these horses well and ye’ll get the same when we’re finished.”
“Aye, Sir!” he squeaked, stunned by his sudden fortune.
Drew strode through the doorway, ready to begin.
Though the afternoon was still light, the sun was tucked behind a gray blanket by the time Drew and Kennan began their ride back to the Bell estate. Wee pellets of snow tapped against their saddles and stuck in their horse’s manes. Drew pulled his cloak close around his neck, but the bastard bits found their way inside nonetheless. By the time the wide gate into the manor was near he had a trickle of melted ice running down his chest.
“There’s something going on,” Kennan observed.
“Trouble?” Drew squinted against the dancing snow. “Doesn’t look like much.”
A tall man pulled a boy by the arm into the courtyard. Lady Bell came out the door, without a cloak, and she was obviously wroth. Drew held out a hand to stop Kennan. He watched and strained to hear what was happening.
The tall man was accusing the boy of something to do with chickens. Lady Bell had her hands on her hips as she spoke to the boy, too low for her words to carry. The boy faced the ground, even when the man shook his arm and pointed at the Lady.
He stomped a foot. His cry of, “Ye are no’ my mither!” floated unmistakably on the wind.
Lady Bell scrubbed her face with her hands, then knelt in front of the boy, placing herself eye-to-eye with the miscreant. She gripped him by the arms and proceeded to address him. Her features were kind and earnest.
The lad shook his head. She stood, her shoulders sloped, and she spoke to the man with an air of resignation.
“No!” the boy yelped, and he bolted around the back of the house. The man started to follow, but Lady Bell grabbed his arm. They seemed to argue a bit, but that stopped when he cupped her face and kissed her. She resisted the first time. The second time, she did not.
“Hmph,” Drew grunted.
“Sir?”
“Could that be the young master?” He turned to Kennan. “If she’s no’ the boy’s mother, who is? And who is she? And who is that man kissing her?”
Kennan grinned. “It’s good ye’ve a month to ferret it out, Sir!” he answered, chuckling.
Drew kicked his horse toward the stables. What was so damned funny?
The building smelled of hay and manure and sweat and leather; the most comforting aromas, Drew believed, after a woman in bed. He gave Kennan his reins and walked toward the back door of the barn. A movement in a remote stall caught his eye. It was the lad who might have escaped a whipping. When the boy saw him, he backed deeper into the enclosure. If his eyes widened any further, they would fall out of his head.
“What’s your name, boy?” Drew barked.
“Wi—William.” He ran a grimy hand under his nose; it came away slick with snot. “Are—are ye going to kill me?”
“I might, aye.” Drew puffed up his chest, rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, and looked down his nose at the lad. “Why do ye ask me that?”
William’s gaze fell to the weapon and he held his breath. His head wobbled in denial.
Drew bent over and rested the other hand on his hip. “Do ye deserve to be kilt, boy?”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he squealed.
“And what is it that ye’re sorry for, exactly?”
“The chickens…” he stepped back, his horrified stare pinned to Drew’s.
Drew nodded slowly and glared narrowly at William. “Is that all?”
The lad wrapped his arms around his chest. His brow lowered and he shrugged.
“How have ye respected the Lady Bell?” Drew prodded.
William’s lower lip jutted. “She’s not Lady Bell!”
Drew tucked those words away to ponder later. “Lady Eryndal, then.”
He shrugged again, looking askance at Drew’s sword. Drew straightened and slid the blade from its scabbard. Dusty light ran along its center ridge.
“It seems to me that as the lady of the house, she deserves your respect and your obedience.” He twisted the sword, his gaze skimming its lethal length. “Is that no’ so?”
William stepped back again and his voice sunk. “Aye.”
Drew squatted in front of the sullen boy. “Did ye ever think ye might want to be a knight, William?”
Surprise at the shift flickered over William’s features, though his nervous gaze kept bouncing to the naked steel blade. He nodded tentatively.
“Do ye ken that a knight must show respect to all Scotch men? And to all women, even if they’re English?”
He swallowed and nodded again.
“And that we protect the King’s lands and his subjects?” Drew said as he sheathed his sword. William’s shoulders relaxed a bit when the weapon disappeared. “That means we don’t harm chickens, nor do we disrespect those above us when we are taken to task for doing so.”
“Oh.” William’s lower lip twitched.
Drew stood and crossed his arms over his chest. “Ye’ll need to be thinking about that, and hard, young William.”
The lad shoved turbulent red hair from his eyes. “Yes. Sir.”
“I do no’ wish to kill a boy your age. It’s a waste.”
“I—I’m sorry. Sir.”
“Right, then.” Drew paused. William looked up at him with a mixture of fear and relief. “Go on. Get back to the house.”
William spun and ran, head down,
elbows and knees pumping hard. He did not look back.
Eryn hid in a stall until Lord Andrew exited the stable. She overheard every word of his exchange with William and her emotions were in a terrible twist.
On the one hand, the knight was wonderful with the boy. Firm, unemotional, outrageous in his threat but kind in his acquittal. She had no doubt that as long as the knight stayed with them, Liam’s behavior would be exemplary.
On the other hand, Liam’s declamation that she was not his mother, coupled with his denial of her as Lady Bell, would undoubtedly make for interesting supper conversation. If she thought it would do any good, she’d claim infirmity and remain in her chamber for the evening. But she couldn’t do that every night without rousing even more suspicion than she was likely facing now.
Better to practice her story and act as if nothing was amiss. And try to ignore the way the courtier’s mere presence knocked the core of her being sideways.
Eryn walked back to the house and slipped into the kitchen. She pretended her intent was to check on the meal, and then she headed to her room to change for supper. She didn’t usually change for supper but, on this particular afternoon, a little distraction might be warranted.
Chapter Five
When Eryn was twelve years of age, she traveled to London with two of the nuns from Elstow Abbey. They were off to Westminster Abbey; she was off on an adventure.
They came upon a man with two lions in a cage. One—the female, he said—was sleeping. But her mate paced back and forth without stopping, his eyes moving over every single body who passed by. His eyes were golden with greenish-brown edges. And they didn’t miss anything.
Lord Andrew has lion eyes, Eryn thought as he entered the dining room.
And he moved like the feline in the cage, displaying the liquid motion of strength under tight control. Ready to spring, should the need arise. His clothing roiled around him as if trying to keep pace with his body. Eryn could hardly keep from staring at the man.
He paused inside the doorway, and his golden gaze traced her figure so thoroughly that her skin tingled under its caress. She chose her turquoise velvet gown because it hugged her curves and tweaked the color of her eyes, while the heavy silver belt and jeweled dagger at her hip displayed both strength and position. With the expected conversation tonight, she felt the need to emphasize both.
If she wondered whether her efforts were effective, there was no doubt now. Lord Andrew’s expression softened to a slight smile and he gave her a courtly bow.
“My lady, ye honor me with your presence,” he murmured. Straightening, he added, “When I mentioned beautiful women, I had no idea that ye would exceed my imagination.”
Eryn pressed down the volatile surge of pleasure his words prompted; she must keep her head straight and not be dazed by his flattery. She gestured toward the table setting. “I hope the conversation will exceed your imagination as well, my lord. Please sit.”
Shortly after the food was set on the table, he turned to her and said, “I believe I met the young master—William is his name, is it no’?—in the stable today.”
Eryn nodded. “I—”
She stopped, realizing she was about to reveal that she heard him in the stable with the lad. Hoping he mistook her ‘I’ for ‘aye’ she continued with, “His name is William.”
“He is no’ your son, then,” he pressed.
“No, Sir. I am his foster mother.”
One brow arched. “Ye are no’ related?”
It was time for the lie. “His father was my stepbrother. So we don’t share actual blood, but are related nonetheless.”
Eryn tipped her head and, while she offered her most honest smile, she didn’t offer any more information. She was determined to lie only when forced to do so and not stride headlong into unnecessary fabrication.
“Was?” Lord Andrew set down his spoon. His brow twitched a little. “Should I assume ‘twas the Death, then?”
“Yes. It took Liam’s mother first, and his father a year later.” She faced her lap and crossed herself. “God sain their souls.”
“How long past was that?”
“Henry Bell died in January of this year.”
The meal continued then, accompanied only by the tuneless clang of silver on pewter. Eryn’s stomach tightened while all manner of concerns exploded in her mind and sought to destroy her composure. When Lord Andrew spoke again, his deep voice startled her.
“Why did young William claim ye are no’ Lady Bell?”
Shite.
Eryn pushed her shoulders down and gave a sad shake of her head. “He remembers his own mother with great affection, of course. In his child’s mind, she is the only person that may be named by that title.”
She looked up at him from under her puckered brow trying to discern his belief. “It’s been very hard on Liam, as you might well understand.”
He nodded then, and flashed a crooked grin. “Hence the business with the chickens?”
“Oh!” Eryn rolled her eyes, no longer acting. She clenched the fists flanking her platter. “The boy cannot understand that when he seeks to punish me for his parents’ deaths, he is only harming his own inheritance!”
“I gathered as much,” he replied. “I had quite a bit of anger of my own as a youth.”
“So what did you do to overcome it?” she asked, hoping for usable advice.
Lord Andrew rested one arm on the table and leaned toward her. His pupils dilated in the flickering candlelight leaving only a dark yellow rim around their bottomless black centers. Eryn’s lower lip sought refuge behind her teeth and she held her breath.
“I became a knight,” he growled.
Eryn’s trapped breath left her in a rush. He was so close to her she could smell the soap he used to wash for supper. She yanked her gaze from his eyes but it fell to his lips, firmly smooth and slightly pinker than his skin.
That was not helpful.
She leaned back and gulped a steadying swallow of wine. “Well. Perhaps that will be Liam’s destiny as well.”
Lord Andrew let loose a thunderous laugh that quaked in her chest and displayed a perfect row of top teeth and an incomplete row of bottom teeth. “May the Lord have mercy!” he bellowed. “Let’s no’ doom the lad just yet!”
Eryn smiled, though his words raced through her awareness. Doomed? He appeared healthy and prosperous. Was he not happy with his situation? Her image of the knight blurred, no longer clearly defined by his position.
“But you—I mean a knight has wealth and power… Is that not a satisfactory life?”
His eyes darkened and all mirth disappeared from his countenance. “For some it is.”
Eryn wanted to ask more, but something in the man’s expression forbade it. She offered him more wine and changed the subject. “Were your efforts today profitable?”
“Aye, they were.” His feline gaze pinned hers. “And were yours?”
Her eyes rounded. “Mine?”
He waved his hand toward the door. “Your meeting with your tenants.”
“Oh! Yes.” She cut a piece of meat and popped it in her mouth. Surely he wouldn’t expect her to mumble past a chunk of roast fowl.
Apparently he did. “What was your meeting about, might I ask?”
Eryn chewed slowly and raised one hand in apology for her delay in answering. She had given some thought to that answer, but she hadn’t expected the question to be so direct or so quickly forthcoming. She sipped her wine, swallowed, and faced the knight.
“In your travels, Lord Drummond, how have you found the people of Scotland?”
His head tilted at her parry. He parried right back. “Please call me Andrew, my lady.”
Her belly clenched at the intimacy of his tone. She dipped her chin, but did not take her eyes from his. She would not blink first. “Very well. Andrew, then.”
He waited.
Did she dare to give him the same consideration? She was dining with a dangerou
s animal, one whose compelling presence seemed to pull her toward disaster. She needed to keep her guard up. But the longer he stared at her, the more ridiculous her denial felt.
“Even though I am an unmarried woman, I suppose the situation will allow for you to call me Eryndal,” she conceded. “Or Eryn.”
A slow smile transformed Andrew’s features. “Drew.”
Oh my Lord.
She nodded and lifted the wine jug, glad it was heavy enough not to betray the tremble that the one syllable, spoken in a deep rumble, sent throughout her frame. She filled his goblet.
“Your tenants?” he pressed.
“The people of Scotland?” she pressed back.
Drew leaned back in his chair. His gaze fell to the tabletop. “Anarchy is rampant.”
Eryn affected a puzzled look. “Anarchy?”
His lion eyes flicked back to hers. “Do ye understand the word?”
“Yes, Drew, I do understand the word. I only wondered what sort of anarchy you might have witnessed,” she clarified, irritated that he thought her inadequately schooled.
He sipped from his brimming wine goblet then cleared his throat. “In the absence of certain officers, common peasants are claiming roles—and the accompanying status of those roles—when they are clearly no’ entitled to them.”
“Oh?” This road of conversation was coming far too near to home.
“Oh, indeed.”
“Well, what would you have the people do?”
“The people are expected to wait for their King to make the necessary appointments.”
Eryn scoffed. “How long?”
“As long as it takes, of course!” His brow lowered. “Order must be preserved in a crisis.”
She shook her head. “But if there is no sheriff, or constable, how can there be order?”
“Are ye thinking that claiming such a role is acceptable?” he growled.
Eryn spread her hands wide. “I’m thinking that having a man who is willing to take on such a responsibility is preferable to having the land given over to thieves and murderers!”
He narrowed his eyes. “What about the fallow lands?”