by Jackie Ivie
“Aunt Evelyn!” Dallis was shocked. It sounded in her voice.
“They also ken the best way to weaken a man is to get a bit of wine into his gullet. A bit of wine with a bit of hops and St. John’s Wort in it. Just a bit. Na’ enough to flavor it, but enough to make a man drugged and slow in his actions. ’Tis my own concoction.”
Dallis kept her mouth from dropping open with an effort. It was difficult to form words for a bit. “I thought you swore the man fealty,” she said, finally.
“So does he,” the lady replied.
“Aunt Evelyn. You have nae honor.”
The old woman looked askant at her and winked before going back to her sewing. “When you’ve reached my age, you learn something about honor.”
“What?”
“You learn survival is what matters. Then shelter, food, good ales. One thing you’ve done right since wedding the Dunn-Fadden, Dallis lass. You’ve learned how to get the proper age of your lager. You brew a hearty ale. Kilchurning and his men are most appreciative of it. Most. Should he win the day, I’ll be rewarded while he finishes drinking the kegs dry. Should he lose?” She shrugged again but was still talking to her tapestry. “Well…I’ve proved my loyalty as a member of the Dunn-Fadden clan with my potions. Either way, I survive. I call that a win.”
“You let the choice of two evils decide itself,” Dallis commented.
“What woman can choose between two evils?”
She had. “What of me?” Dallis asked in a small voice she hated.
“Dinna’ look to me for the answer. ’Twas na’ me opening the gate and welcoming his sworn enemy, Kilchurning, while his lone son perished. You’d best hope for a Kilchurning win.”
Dallis felt the twinge again deep in her breast at mention of Payton’s demise. It was painful. And mysterious. There was no reason for sorrow. She was close to getting what she wanted. What she’d always wanted. The death of her husband was a foregone conclusion. It shouldn’t hurt and make her eyes water up strangely.
Yet, it still did. Again. She had to turn her face aside to hide the moisture in her eyes and blink rapidly as she watched the flames.
“Brighten up, Dallis lass. With what I suspicion, I’d guess your acceptance into Clan Dunn-Fadden will be easy. If he does na’ take your head for getting his son killed, that is. I’d talk fast if I were you.”
“Of what?”
“The bairn you carry.”
That’s when Dallis’s mouth really did fall open.
Chapter 7
“That looks a bit like the Dunn-Fadden crest. A bit swollen and misshapen, but that’s a thistle…see there? And surely as I’m standing here, that thistle is wrapped about a falcon claw. See that?”
“Hush.” Payton’s lips moved. His teeth hurt badly enough he knew the words were being formed, but nothing came out. He couldn’t get a deep breath, either. The armor wrapped about his body guaranteed it. He settled with grunting. That didn’t do much either, although it sounded like bubbles forming in his nose.
“Jesu’! He’s awake! And hush a bit! Your da will have my arse if he knew we were here, visiting you. He gave strict orders. We had to wait till near dawn.”
“Mar…tin?” Payton choked out, splitting the name in half.
“Aye. And Seth-the-Silent. At his side is Davey…and you ken he’s never about without his little brother, Alan, so we have the whelp with us as well.”
“My cousins?”
“The same. Here. We brought you a dram of whiskey. ’Twill do you more good than the broth they keep on the fire just for you. Here. Drink up.” The words were accompanied by the touch of a sporran to his mouth and Payton gulped before they drowned him with it. Then he was choking, making it impossible to breathe.
“Payton?” Martin’s whisper held fear. They all knew why. The Dunn-Fadden laird was a bull of a man and could make grown men cow with his temper. Payton kept from making noise while he sucked in blessed air and vowed silently to get even. And then his chest wall ran into the abutment of armor about his chest and belly.
That bit of nurse-maiding he’d take up with Da. When he was well enough. It was bad enough being forced to wear a chain tunic when he was younger. This amount of armor was going to make him look pampered and effeminate. Aside of which, it was going to be difficult to put up a decent fight if he were encased in steel plates like the Sassenach.
“Here now. That’s enough of that. We’d best leave the hard spirits for the men. Try this instead. Now, sip on the broth like a good lad.”
Payton spit it out at them. The dribble of it on his lower lip showed how poorly he’d done that, as well.
“What’s…been done to me?” Aside from my wife trying to get me killed. He wheezed between the words and somebody mopped at his lip probably using a tender motion. It still hurt.
“You took a cleaving. And a hacking. That was followed by a general amount of beating. And then a bit of a chop. Or mayhap it was two chops. It looks like the fellow landed more than one blow to your face, and bother me if it doesn’t look like he used your own family crest to do it with.”
“My…face?” Payton asked.
“Dinna’ fash yourself. You’re still just as bonny,” Martin replied. “The scar will na’ even show. It’s that close to your scalp. You can lift your hair to show it off to the lasses when you like, though.”
Payton tried growling instead, making it vibrate through his throat where it hurt less.
“What? You doona’ think of things like that? We do. Doona we, lads? All lasses love a scarred man. Makes him dangerous.”
“Mar…tin,” Payton tried for the growl again, but it sounded ridiculous, even to him.
“What? You ken that truth as much. The lasses love a big, scarred man. Love him well, they do.”
“I’m…wed,” Payton replied.
“Sweet mother of God. Listen to him. Claiming to be pious. It’s the head blow, it is. He’s barely lucid. Best give him more broth.”
“Damn…Martin! I am na’ mad.”
Payton’s words ended with another cough, since they’d shoved a spoonful of broth into his mouth. If he could use his arms, he’d show them. Even weighed down with metal plate, he could still take out Martin, Seth-the-Silent, and both Dunn-Fadden cousins, Davey and Alan.
“Somebody keep an eye out for the laird! And Redmond, too!”
Payton’s eyes went wide on Martin’s whisper. And what it meant.
“What…are you up to?” he asked.
“Alan’s never seen a battle wound. I promised him a peek.”
“You…what?”
“Just a small bet I’ve made that he canna’ stomach gore from a battlefield. The lad says he can, and further claims I sully him without cause.”
“I will na’ just lay here while you—you….”
Davey was the one chuckling. “Well, since your da has you all trussed up like a prize goose, I doona’ see why you won’t just lay there. Like a good lad.”
“My da…did…what?” It isn’t armor? he wondered.
“Flesh takes time to knit and you were fighting anyone that tried to get you quiet. Losing blood and spilling your guts and making a fine sight. And that was a-fore the fever,” Martin replied.
“Fever?” The word warbled.
“Aye. Fever. You were burning with it. And raving. And yelling. And fighting. There was na’ one of us to hold you down. So it took all of us.”
“You…held me down?”
“Na’ me. ’Twas me doing the rope tying.”
“Damn, your rotten—!”
“Here lad. Have some more broth.”
Payton’s spate of cursing was cut off by more of the soup as Martin warned him a moment before shoving the spoon in. He had to resort to glaring as he swallowed.
“Your da says you was birthed from a she-wolf, and he must be right. Any other man would have bled to death long since. Or perished of the fever. But na’ you. Oh, nae. You even curse and fight them when they spent all th
at twine stitching you back together. And then they wasted a good volume of whiskey to bathe you in, as well. You dinna’ take to that well, either. Let me tell you.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
It was Alan retching out the words. Martin was grinning and raising his eyebrows and looking like it was very hard not to laugh.
“And then everybody got to worry over your head wound. And how mayhap you’d never waken. Then, you started mumbling…the oddest things.”
“I doona’ wish to hear,” Payton replied. He knew it was a wasted breath even as he made it.
“You told everyone about the starlike scar on your rump. You remember. The one just above the right thigh—”
“Cease, Martin!” Payton interrupted him, and there wasn’t much weak sounding about his voice anymore.
“Everyone had to look. And discuss. I dinna’ tell them how it got there.”
Payton blew out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
“He dinna’ have to. You did!” That was Davey.
Payton knew he was reddening. And warming. And then sweating.
“Na’ one soul knew we’d shaved that bit of the latrine seat up to see how long it would be a-fore any noted it. And how many arses we could spike. ’Twas na’ my fault you went and forgot. And then you had to go and confess it!”
Martin’s voice held the disgust while snickering happened from the others, including Alan, who no longer sounded like he was ill.
“Now we have to pay a fine. To the laird’s coffers. Due to your loose mouth.”
“A…fine?”
“Seems you’re na’ the lone Dunn-Fadden with that particular scar. It’s a family trait now, we might say. Wouldn’t we, lads?”
Payton groaned aloud. It didn’t stop them.
“We’ve na’ got all night. As soon as morn comes, they’ll be poking at the fire and coming in to check on you. We’d best na’ be here when that happens.”
Payton roved his eyes about the coarse, thick walls. He was in a siege tent, and now that dawn was starting to stir light through the sides, he could see the heavy lengths of hemp it had been woven from.
“Why…am I here?” he asked.
“Why are you here? Have you na’ been listening to me explain it?” Martin pulled in a lung full of air. “You took a cleaving. And a hacking. Some chopping. A blow—”
“In a siege tent! I already ken—!” Payton halted the rest of his words when a new ache from just below his breastbone twinged into being. And then it felt sticky again.
“Oh. We have the siege tents because we have the castle under siege.”
“We…do?”
“’Tis actually your da, but we’re assisting,” Martin explained.
“Aye. I gather the firewood. Alan assists me,” Davey added.
“Why?” Payton queried.
“In the midst of winter, a fire is a good thing. Aside of which, the men like the meat cooked.”
Payton sighed. That even hurt. “Why did we…put a siege…on the castle?”
“Your da is right fond of the Dales. And his own castle. He is na’ giving all that up without a fight. And whoever holds the keep gets the lands. Or whoever has the heiress gets the keep. Or whoever keeps the heiress gains the land. I disremember the wording. The Stewart King’s edict was too long.”
“Kilchurning…has my keep?”
“Aye.”
“And…the wife?” Payton continued.
“Her, too. Has her locked into her tower, I hear.”
“You…hear? From who?” The pain radiating just about everywhere was turning into darts of fire. Payton kept working his mind and mouth in order to ignore it. It wasn’t working.
“That serving wench tells us. Lass by the name of Bronwyn. You recollect her? She’s right fond of Seth-the-Silent. Tells him everything, she does.”
“But how…does Seth tell you?”
“Pictures. The lad is verra good with a stick in the snow. Except last eve. She must have told him momentous news last eve, because he was all red and odd acting when she left. And he’s been drawing pictures of your da ever since. Haven’t you, Seth?”
Snickers from Martin, Davey, and Alan answered him. Payton narrowed his eyes. Seth was bobbing his head in agreement.
“She…is na’ being harmed, is she?” Payton asked. If Kilchurning had put one finger on her, Payton was killing him. Dallis Caruth Dunn-Fadden was not to be harmed…until Payton got his hands on her.
“Nae. From all accounts, your wife is crying and pacing and in mourning over your sorry arse.”
“Liar!” Payton gave the word too much emphasis. The twinge of agony that arced through his torso was the reward. He drew in a shallow breath and eased it back out. Then he did it again.
“Well…perhaps it is a tiny lie. But you are on your sickbed. I doona’ wish you fretful. Aside from which, I have a bet and time’s a-wasting.”
“I think it’s started bleeding again,” Davey said.
“Perfect,” Martin replied. “Come along, Alan. Time to see the wound.”
Payton groaned again. Concentrated. And tried ignoring the sensation of pain throughout his torso. Then a leg. His entire shoulder. Even his forehead where they had him bound to the bed. “Which…wound?” he asked finally.
“Which one? The one from the broadsword. Be-Jesu’, but it’s big. And deep! Near cleaved you in twain. And right across your belly! I dinna’ ken a man could withstand a blow like that.”
“Alan…get me the light! Bring it closer! Na’ that close, you fool! You’ll burn him.”
Payton blinked rapidly on the quick singe to his eyelashes from their candle. And then he was glaring at his man through an upturned glance. All of which muted the pain somewhat.
“Quickly now, lad! Look. And then hurry! Payton’s gone and torn some stitching open. You should take more care of this, Payton Dunn-Fadden. They’ll have to put that twine back in. And it was hell the first—”
His words were interrupted by the sound of Alan’s retching, which was covered over by the sound of horses arriving. A lot of horses. And they were accompanied by something truly heavy and large if the rumble of sound from its passage could be believed. There was a collective moment of silence in the tent from all of them. And then Alan broke it.
“Ah-oh,” he said.
“You’re saying they went into the tent? With my son? Martin? And my sister’s lads? And none stopped them? Where is MacCloud?”
“Christ. And his mother, Mary.” Martin’s whisper answered the booming sound of Payton’s father’s voice.
“What do I keep you all about as guards for? And what the blazes are they doing in the tent?”
“We heard his speech. We checked. He’s awake. And coming to nae harm.” That had to be one of the laird’s Honor Guard with that announcement, and then the tent flat moved, blasting the interior with cold air.
“Why dinna’ you say so sooner? He’s awake? Payton? Lad?”
Alexander Duncan Dunn-Fadden was a bear of a man, eclipsed in size only by his son. He had silver-streaked black hair and brilliant blue eyes, proving to the world that the King’s Champion was definitely the Dunn-Fadden laird’s offspring. There the resemblance ended. Unlike Payton, the laird claimed a full black beard and a fire-scarred face no lass would swoon over anymore. The beard was the only sign it bothered him. He shoved his way through the trio about Payton and dropped to a knee. Payton had never seen worry in his father’s face, nor moisture glazing his eyes before. His own widened.
“Thank the lord. Payton? Son?”
“Aye?” Payton whispered.
“You’re awake. And lucid.”
“Aye,” Payton repeated.
The laird cleared his throat. “Well. You’re in luck…that Kilchurning just winged you.” There was an odd warble of voice in the midst of the statement.
“In…luck?” Payton replied, feeling the familiar pull of resentment whenever he was about his father.
“Aye. S
aved me the trouble of it. And if I ever hear of you leaving your Honor Guard and taking on an entire clan without benefit of a sword to your back again, you’ll na’ survive the whipping I’ll give you. I guarantee it.” The hand his father put atop his head trembled.
Payton swallowed to kill the emotion. And then he nodded.
“Good. Remember that. Hell’s fury is na’ as great as your da’s will be. And should you ever put me through another fortnight and ten like this, I’ll make certain you canna’ walk for a month!”
The laird ruffled a bit of Payton’s hair and then lifted back to his feet. Then he was clearing his throat of an emotion it was impossible for a Dunn-Fadden laird to have, in order to start speaking. The man was out of Payton’s range of vision, but loud enough anyone hovering near the tent would have no trouble with the listen.
“Follow my orders this time! And get another warning sent over to the Kilchurning! He’s bound to have heard the arrival of my onager and kens what that means. Spent nigh a sennight getting the catapult ready, what with twisting the ropes for the right tension and greasing the wheels. Now ’tis time to get serious. Tell him he has three days!”
“My laird?”
Payton wasn’t the only one surprised to hear his cousin, Davey Dunn-Fadden, address the laird. Near everyone in the tent had the same reaction of indrawn breath.
“What are you all standing about denting the good earth with your weight while you watch my son get well? You there! MacCloud! Get us some rocks. Take these four sorry arses with you!”
Davey cleared his throat. It was a pathetic sound. “My…laird?” he said again.
“Make them about ten stone each. Any heavier and the onager canna’ launch them! Take a wagon.” He was moving away, the door was shoved open again, if the drop in temperature was a good indicator, and then he was standing in the portal, with the door flap open while Davey tried again. Payton wasn’t the only one shocked by his cousin’s actions.
“My laird! You need listen to me!”
“Dinna’ I put you in charge of the firewood?” Alexander Dunn-Fadden asked.
“Aye,” Alan agreed.
“Then haul your bones out to the woods and get me some! A-fore you go, get some more broth in here! My son is wasting away while we tarry! And get the healer! It appears he opened his belly up again as well. I’d best na’ hear it was you lads causing it, you ken?”