A Knight and White Satin

by Jackie Ivie

  “Your little foray onto Caruth land. Your wedding of the heiress. Your taking of the keep. All wonderful exploits. All making your da strut about like he’s sired the most manly fellow to set foot on the earth.” She bent closer, gifting him with a foul odor from her gap-toothed mouth. Payton winced. “You should na’ have turned tail and run. You might have been able to keep the tower once you gained it…if you’d have told anyone what you were planning, that is.”

  They hadn’t told anyone they were planning on attacking the White Tower. It was a lark while the lairds were at court, undertaken without much thought, no cunning, and after an eve of drinking whiskey. They’d expected to take a chunk of the white rock used to construct the structure as proof that they’d braved it. Maybe steal a kiss or two—if the wenches weren’t too ungodly ugly or unwilling. Never did they expect the earth to heave up and assist them the moment they rammed the gate. It was as if God had decided to open the door for them and had even given them the key.

  The Caruths within the walls had fought hard, deathly hard, as was their creed. They’d been battle-prepared and hadn’t waited to engage in one. There’d been so much blood. His vision was stained with it. That was regrettable. As was Ian’s death. Payton closed his eyes. Nobody was supposed to die.

  “The king’s given you a goodly portion of Caruth kirk, as well.”

  “He…has? Why?”

  “Well, only if you can seize it and hold it. ’Tis what your da petitioned for.”

  “Da…petitioned The Stewart?”

  She grinned. More of her foul breath touched him. Payton was grateful he couldn’t take great, lung-expanding gulps of air at the moment. “Aye. The moment he heard. He’s had a blood-lust for the earl of Kilchurning that nothing can stanch. They’ve been feuding ever since the earl’s great-aunt left your great-grandfather standing at the wedding altar whilst she eloped with that Irishman some generations back. You know the story.”

  Payton groaned.

  “Why…to ken that his own son filched Kilchurning’s betrothed right from beneath the man’s nose was beyond great! The laird was crowing. Strutting. Saw his chance and took it. He turned his mount about the moment he learned and went right back to Edinburgh. I dinna’ ken if he even stopped for a change of horseflesh. That’s how pleased he was at your exploits.”

  “Da…did that?”

  “Aye. And all exclaimed over the tale. Why…the king’s entire court’s been a-buzz at what you did. It’s highly chivalrous. They’re bandying it about as a sonnet. You might hear it once you’ve healed enough.”

  “Nae,” Payton whispered.

  “Oh, aye. With minstrels. They sing of your attack of the Caruth tower with but a band of ten clansmen. Your taking of the castle…splitting the roof wide open and fighting your way in. ’Twas most heroic. And then filching the heiress right from beneath their noses? Na’ only that…but wedding and bedding with her, too? And all a-fore clan alarm could be given? ’Tis said you’ve the strength of a demon and the speed of a griffin. Why, they’re even saying you’re immortal, since nae mortal could have done it.”

  Payton breathed out slowly and a curse went with it.

  “Little do they ken the wench stuck a sewing needle in your side, putting you on your back worse than any whore.” She was cackling and chortling, and he couldn’t decide which was worse, her words or her laughter.

  “You need to learn that about women, Payton Dunn-Fadden.”

  “Learn…what?”

  “Na’ all folk tremor at your passage, young one, although you’ve done so much to gain yourself that reputation, it will probably be truth now. Na’ all men run in fear from you, nor do all the women swoon in ecstasy even a-fore you touch them.”

  “I’m really tired,” he said, more to shut her up than because it was true. He didn’t want to hear another word.

  “Women. Mark my words, Payton Dunn-Fadden. The women will be falling over themselves to get your attention. Even worse than a-fore. You’ve a reputation now. You’re a dangerous man. A conqueror. Taking no quarter and expecting none.”

  Payton groaned again. There wasn’t any way to stop her words. She wouldn’t cease them until she said everything and made it worse. The Caruth wench hadn’t betrayed him. She hadn’t said a word about it. He wondered why. He couldn’t even remember her name. Or her face. She hadn’t been remarkable except for the size of her bosom once he’d had it displayed, and even that vision was tempered by a haze of pink-washed pain he’d been looking through. She had brown hair. He thought it was brown. It had been tightly braided about her head, but a few strands had come loose in her struggle to keep from being wed. It looked to be a brown color, interspersed with red; an autumn red, tinged with a bit of orange. Her eyes had been a hazel color, more brown than green. Unremarkable. That’s what she was. No great beauty. And she might even be older than his twenty-two years. Maybe. He didn’t really know. She hadn’t been young. That, he knew.

  “We’ll start your new lessons with the basics.”

  “Lessons?” Payton asked. He didn’t bother opening his eyes. He didn’t care. The entire episode was dreamlike and approaching nightmarish. It was better not to see it.

  “About women. And wenches. And what a man’s to do with them.”

  “I dinna’ need any help with that, crone.”

  She laughed again. He ignored her. His mind wandered back to the Caruth lass in that pristine, bare room…the white dress she’d worn; the pale, almost translucent beauty of her skin against the large, red ripeness of her lips.

  He couldn’t fathom why she hadn’t spoken the farce, saving both of them from his foolishness. Unless she needed the news that he’d taken a maiden wall, because she no longer owned one. Payton pulled in as much breath as he could and wondered at the insanity he’d made of his life. He’d wed the Caruth heiress, gained himself a reputation and land, and he couldn’t even recollect what she looked like? He couldn’t truly call it wed, actually. Hand-fasted, maybe. That, they were. But…wed?

  “Just mark these words, Payton Dunn-Fadden. Mark them well. Some wenches truly dinna’ wish your attentions. You must make certain they’ve no weapon next time, a-fore you mount them. You might na’ survive the next prick.” She put back her head and hooted even louder.

  That was when the lie began.

  Chapter 2

  The lie ruled his life. Usually as an ache he barely felt. Sometimes it came as a raging belly of disgust. Sometimes it was muted, whispering through him and making him shudder with what those about him might be thinking. But always it was there, hovering in wait. That was when it was most powerful. When it was dormant…and he didn’t know for how long. That’s what he feared.

  Payton took another blow and then another, until he was on his knees facing a sea of mud flecked with his own blood. Then, and only then would the lie subside and go deep into his soul where it would stir the hatred. He had to wait for the self-hate to get big enough and harsh enough. Then it turned everything into a red wash of color that would pump strength back to his limbs.

  Then Payton would start to win.

  It was ever this way. The battle would be lengthy, allowing the Stewart king time to flirt with his latest mistress, and his lords to wrangle and bet on the eventual winner. By then the King’s Champion would be faltering. His legs wouldn’t have much feel, his arms would be dead weight attached to his shoulders, and it became a fight simply to lift his shield to ward off yet another blow. This was when the king covered most of the wages. Because somehow the diminutive Stewart knew.

  He knew it would happen. He didn’t know that the lie Payton harbored was solidifying and glowing, warming until it became hot, and then it got dangerous. It became fire—sending rage to every part of him with every pump of his heart. He gave a warning. He always gave a warning, with a yell so deep and guttural, he could hear the applause already starting before it was drowned out by drums. The king always had drummers at his side, keeping a light prancing cadence of taps
throughout the evening until Payton’s yell changed it. Then, the drums became one blended thump that kept growing until it was the only thing he heard.

  This time went exactly the same. They’d found him a Welshman capable of making a decent fight, sponsored by a nameless prince with a full purse. The Welshman was also covered in animal hide trews and tunic, and smelled worse than a latrine at high summer.

  Payton didn’t wait until his yell died out. He couldn’t. He wasn’t in control, anymore. The lie was. It turned him into a hate-filled menace that was feeding off the drumbeat until his movements matched them. His shield felt as light as feathers, his club had the same weight of bread, and he used both to pummel; striking again and again at the man he was facing until they’d call a halt, and even then he seldom heard it at first.

  King James usually stopped it with a blast from his pipes, immediately followed by the cessation of the drums. Sometimes, he had to send men onto the field to pull Payton from his opponent. On those rare occasions, it felt like the self-hate was consuming him, frightening him with the intensity of it as he waited for the woman behind it all to open her mouth, branding him a fool, a coward, and a fraud.

  The Welshman looked like a mud-covered heap of dead animal. He groaned occasionally, showing his defeat. He was still breathing. He lived. Payton turned away and stalked from them. It was time to hide in his chambers, where his bath and a feast would be waiting for him, as well as a lovely wench to make sure it was all to his satisfaction. He didn’t look twice at the Welshman. He didn’t care.

  They didn’t say he fought like a demon without cause.

  “Dear Lord!” Dallis gave it as much emotion as she dared. There were too many serfs still about, raising a slight dusting of snow with each footstep as they swept what had once been a stately and beautiful great hall. She looked up and blinked as more snowflakes filtered down from three stories up, showing how frail the latest roof patch was.

  “Leroy!” She hollered it loudly, since he was probably outside by now. Most of the Dunn-Fadden clansmen were. They had animals to secure, since the storm hadn’t waited as she’d prayed and hoped and worried for.

  “I hope you dinna’ pay too much for that.”

  “Of course I paid too much. When would I have grown sense?” Dallis snapped, glaring for a moment at her companion’s head before looking away.

  “I dinna’ say that,” the older woman answered.

  “I ken as much. I said it so you would na’ have to. I already ken that everything I pay for, and everything I do to save this keep is wasted. I’ll still do it. ’Twas my inheritance and entrusted to me. I’ll na’ shirk it.”

  “Your father dinna’ entrust it to you. The king forced him to. That’s why it’s in this condition while he covers the kirks, fanning the feud with Kilchurning. It was entrusted to that man…the King’s Champion. Your husband.”

  Dallis swept harder, but that was the only hint she gave of listening.

  Beside her, Lady Evelyn snickered. “’Tis your fault, you know.”

  “I dinna’ control the weather.”

  “Nae, but you do control the fates.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “’Tis what happens every time you use what funds he sends to try and exact your revenge. Time and again I tell you, and yet you go against my advice.”

  “Advise me something I want to hear, then.”

  The older woman shook her head. “’Twas most stupid this time. The Welsh canna’ fight well enough to take him down.”

  “Leroy!” Dallis turned her head and yelled the name again. If he didn’t answer, she was going to have to climb up and out onto the balcony of what used to be her servant’s chambers and try and put the woven thatch piece back in position. That was a daunting task. It was going to be precarious and it was going to be cold. Her shoulders sagged slightly as she started hitching her skirts into her belt, revealing a worn underdress.

  “Actually…now that I think on it, I dinna’ ken if there’s anyone that fights well enough to win him.”

  “Somebody will win him. I just have to find one.”

  “You’d be better served using his funds on his keep, filling his larder, his woodpile, and his treasury. Like his missives instruct.”

  Lady Evelyn went back to sweeping, before the snow melted and made a mess of the dried rushes. The woman was nearing sixty, and as her niece’s chaperone and companion, she should have been sitting beside a fireplace, sewing tiny little stitches into a tapestry to adorn the castle walls. Since every bit of gold that the great champion, Laird Dunn-Fadden, sent toward the upkeep of the castle was gathered up and saved until there was enough to find another warrior to pay for Dallis’s revenge, Lady Evelyn was forced to do what they all did: work in order to survive.

  Dallis didn’t let it bother her. Not today. Maybe after she’d reached the thatch across the roof, seen the damage caused by the storm, and secured it again. Then, maybe she’d feel guilty. But not now. She had too much to do.

  It was colder the closer she got to the roof. Dallis ran the steps past her rooms, and when she reached the battlements, she could see why. It wasn’t just a storm, it was a horrific wind-driven storm. The thatch was still intact. That was a blessing. It was waving about in the wind since one of the mooring ropes had come loose. Dallis scrambled onto the merlon, settling her buttocks into a cupped area that seemed molded for them, and pulled until her arms ached. The last repair had been the cheapest, and they’d chiseled out a slight line in each crenel for the ropes to hug into. One had itched its way loose. She breathed out the relief as she caught the line and pulled it back into position, and even managed to keep her seat at the same time.

  She didn’t hear the commotion until she was finished and rounding the stair near the second story. If it was what it sounded like, she wasn’t prepared. She might never be.

  “The…meaning?”

  The stammering voice was Lady Evelyn Caruth. Her voice was old and feeble sounding and it hadn’t been earlier. It wasn’t hard to find the cause. A large retinue of men was filling the great hall, too numerous to count. They wore Dunn-Fadden colors, and they weren’t the faded, worn plaid all the clansmen about her wore. Theirs were newly woven, bright with dye, and embellished with pure silver thread if she wasn’t mistaken. If Dallis was in control of her own heartbeat, it probably would’ve stopped. Instead it thudded harder, making it difficult to breathe. She knew instantly who it was. Anyone would have.

  It was their laird, the King’s Champion…and her husband.

  “I want an accounting and I want it now. Where is the mistress?”

  “I—if you’ll allow a-a moment?” Lady Evelyn began, but he interrupted her.

  “A moment? The pipes have been blasting my arrival from the other side of the bailey. You’ve had more than enough time.”

  He wasn’t shouting. He didn’t have to. Lady Evelyn reached his midchest and she hadn’t much stiffness in her backbone anyway. She was probably close to breaking into sobs. Dallis hadn’t much time. She pulled the skirt from her belt as she took the stairs, ignoring the shaking of her hands as she did so. If she cowed the moment she saw him, he’d win. Again. That was not going to happen.

  “Here.”

  He’d taken off his fur cloak and tossed it to one of his men. It didn’t mute the sensation of his size. She remembered that. Three years and she still remembered how large, how well-defined, and just how handsome he was. And then he turned his head and saw her.

  He might as well have flung a bucket of snow melt on her for the blast of cold that happened. She must have forgotten the impact of his ice-blue eyes, but couldn’t imagine how it could’ve happened. They’d been in her dreams, shadowed her steps, and haunted her every waking moment. It should have prepared her for when she got his gaze again.

  “You there!” He was pointing at her. Dallis knew her heart stopped then. She couldn’t prevent it. All she could do was ignore it and hope it worked. She sucked for air, lifted her chin, an
d tossed the loose braid of hair over her shoulder. She hadn’t donned proper attire such as a wimple, a girdle, and a dress befitting her station. She rarely did, and today was laundry day so there hadn’t been a need. She didn’t let it matter. Cowardice didn’t gain a Caruth much.

  “Yes?” she answered, and was grateful her voice had no sign of the wavering every portion of her body was suffering.

  “I demand an accounting!”

  Dallis gulped. Now? He wasn’t even going to see they had privacy? It was going to be difficult enough showing where funds had gone without him guessing the truth. Her eyes went huge. She couldn’t prevent it.

  “Why is everyone mute the moment I speak with them? Fetch the mistress. Perhaps she’ll not cower in fear from me. Go! Now!”

  Dallis’s mouth fell open as what had to be shock raced through her, turning everything numb. It started at her throat, and it slithered until it reached her toes. He didn’t recognize her? Her eyes narrowed before her mouth closed. She had to look away in order to answer. This time her voice did warble. “I’ll see her fetched for you, immediate-like, my lord.”

  “See that you do. Redmond! Find my steward, Leroy. Have him brought before me as well. And stoke this fire!”

  Dallis didn’t hear the rest. She was running back up the stairs.

  His belly was burning and it transferred to his eyes as Payton looked over his keep. He’d sent a large portion of the gold he’d won and this was the result? His eyes ran over the sparse furnishing, the hangings that didn’t look to have been repaired or replaced since that fateful day, and he had to swallow the sourness back down so it could keep the lie he always harbored company. He’d expected anger, maybe hatred, but an impoverished keep and nothing in the way of a welcome? His wife had much to answer for.