A Knight and White Satin

by Jackie Ivie

  The sound of a banshee wail, carried on the night caught at his ear, made him lift his head and move it about on his shoulders, releasing any cramps. Payton smirked to himself, and picked up a hand-ax, hefting it for a time atop his shoulder while he waited for the cry of pain to come again. It had sounded a bit like her. And that was good.

  The twinge deep in his chest came again, and he hunched his shoulders forward while he fought it. He already knew he couldn’t kill it. He’d tried. For two days now. Ceaselessly. He’d tried. And failed.

  But that was his secret.

  The lie that he’d always harbored deep in his innards came alive then, keeping him focused and taking his senses from the pain, for sharp, intensely centered periods of time, but it still worked. Payton pulled in a breath, and started swinging again.

  The wail came again, lifting the hairs along the back of his neck, and adding a ghoulish accompaniment to his movements. Twirl. Thrust. Dive. Roll. Leap. Staying on the ground after being knocked to it was a sure way to get killed. And on that leap back up, he used a slashing motion of the ax that could cleave an opponent’s manhood clean off.

  And would.

  Payton grabbed up another ax. Put them under his armpits, handles backward. He was spinning when he opened his arms, crooked both arms behind him and caught both axes, making deadly slashes at the air at the end of one full rotation.

  Again. And again. Doing the same maneuver until it was natural and perfect and instinctive. The banshee cried out again, filling the night air with pain and suffering. Payton’s heart reacted, sending heat and pain shooting down both arms, through his belly and then into both legs. He hunched forward again, hugging himself as he waited for it to recede.

  It would. He knew it would. And it got a little easier each time. Not much, but a little. And that was better than never.

  He picked up his sword, moved the blade about in front of his face, within a hairsbreadth of space. His eyes constantly moving, checking for the glint that betrayed the blade’s path. Closer….

  Payton shaved a stray eyebrow hair or two while he practiced with the blade, using it as an opponent might, making certain that no matter what the cost, he’d know where the blade was at all times, and wouldn’t even blink.

  The woman-cry came again. Stronger. With more agony involved, and it sounded so much like her, that his knees wavered and then dropped him. Payton hunched forward…struggled, and nearly had the weep emotion killed before it reached his eyes.

  This time.

  Payton blinked rapidly at the moonlit span of turf before him, where shadows showed where he’d been shoving weapons for balance, or using clods of earth as a weapon. He focused. Turning all his attention to every minute bit of darkness before moving on to the next one. His reward was a domination over the weakness that made a man cry. Tears were for the weak and for the faint-hearted to spill.

  And her to spill.

  He conquered the emotion again. Straightened. Flexed. And rotated.

  Dallis awoke to a rain-filled day smelling of freshness and renewal and bringing heart-pain with every moment she had to look at it. She shut her eyes again, and that allowed the tear to ooze from beneath her lid.

  “My Lady?”

  Dallis trembled and hunched a shoulder, hoping the speaker would get the unspoken message. She should have known Lady Evelyn wasn’t that easily put-off.

  “You canna’ ignore him all day.”

  Dallis shuddered through a breath. Then, another. Nothing muted it, nothing tempered it, and nothing changed it. If she opened her eyes she had to face the vast vista of nothingness that it was.

  I…ken as much.” She whispered.

  “And you truly should give the lad a name. He’s keeping the wet nurses up all night, sleeping all day, and na’ one soul kens what to call him. Going on six days, and nae name. The devil will snatch him up if you doona’ give that lad a name!”

  “His father…can christen him,” Dallis replied.

  “Dallis.”

  Oh, God! It was Redmond MacCloud. In her bedchamber and speaking just as he used to with Payton. Dallis’s heart twinged so swiftly and painfully, that she very nearly cried aloud with the pain of it.

  “Aye?” she whispered to the wall.

  “The challengers have been located. Yester-eve.”

  She nodded, the motion allowing more tears to slide through her closed lids and down her cheeks.

  “They are both hardy looking. Tough. Large. They appear to be able to give…him trouble.”

  “They may…kill him?”

  The possibility was making everything that she couldn’t consciously numb spurt with agony.

  “Aye,” he replied.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  “’Twas already a given, lass. The king could na’ get any takers to this bet of his without challengers that would make a fair fight.”

  “And…Payton?”

  “I’ve na’ located him, yet. None of the Guard has. The king has him locked away so tightly, it’s worse than looking for gray hairs in the king’s beard.”

  His attempt at humor fell flat. Dallis licked at the dry feeling in her mouth. Everything felt flat, anymore.

  “You sent word?”

  “Through the king. Daily. He claims Dunn-Fadden was informed of his son’s birth. There is nae other answer. Yet.”

  Dallis sighed. “Then…the bairn has nae name. Still.”

  “You are so stubborn!” Lady Evelyn told her. “You already ken that the longer he goes un-christened, the greater the risk.”

  “May I suggest a name?”

  Dallis struggled to open her eyes again. The room was dreary with rain-leaden skies outside, and the candles sputtering along the wall. She had too many pillows, too. She knew better than to complain. Nobody was listening.

  “David. ’Twill do until Laird Dunn-Fadden adds to it. We shall call him Davey.”

  Dallis struggled with the fresh tears, and then lost out. She watched as Redmond’s eyes looked moist, too. She nodded.

  “I’ll go and tell young Alan.”

  “Redmond?” she asked.

  “Aye?”

  “You are too good to me.”

  He looked at her for a bit. And then winked. “I know,” he replied before sauntering out.

  Chapter 26

  The drums had been going for hours, legions of drummers making a beat of sound that infiltrated the walls, searched down all the corridors, and even into the dungeon, to the slab of stone that Payton Dunn-Fadden was lying atop. He’d been awake the entire time, looking inward, rather than feeling the damp, decay, and fear that the entire space seemed filled with.

  “My Laird Dunn-Fadden?”

  It was MacIlroy. As Payton had requested. He watched the king’s announcer grimace at the choice of hospitality, looking incongruous in his tunic of a satin so fine it shone, even down here, with only an ancient torch for light.

  “In the end room, MacIlroy!” Payton called out, and smirked again. “’Tis the only one with the door open.”

  “I have never seen the likes of—”

  The man stopped at the door to Payton’s chosen room and his mouth dropped open. Payton guessed he was looking at the moss-draped walls, which was all some had for water. Payton pulled himself up, feeling every muscle in his abdomen making the move, and then he was on his feet and stretching.

  “You bring my attire?” he asked.

  “You could have anyone assist you. Anyone. Your entire Honor Guard has been bothering the king daily with messages about it. And you choose me. Me. Why?”

  “’Tis the sound of your voice. It echoes. Even down here, with none to hear.”

  “Have you lost your wits? There are rooms all about this castle for your use. Rooms! With fine lighting, and warm fireplaces, and—and—and padding on the chairs, and blankets. Look there! You doona’ even have a blanket!”

  “I have my plaid.” Payton started unwinding it from about him. “’Tis all I need.”


  “But…it’s blasted chill down here! And you had a choice of any of them! Or all of them. The king would probably have moved his wife if you wanted her rooms!”

  “I dinna’ want any of them, MacIlroy. Too soft. Now. Move from the way. They’re bringing my bucket.”

  “A bucket? For what?”

  “Washing. What else?”

  Payton moved around the older fellow and took the bucket from the turnkey. The man returned his nod. Then Payton placed the bucket on the floor, went into a full hand stand, and ducked his head fully into it before lifting back out. MacIlroy had a look of awe on his face when Payton finished, was back on his feet, and spitting wet strands of hair from his mouth. Then he was dipping one end of his kilt into the water and splashing himself, unmindful of what the announcer might be calling chilled conditions.

  “My feile-breacan?” he asked when he’d finished and the man just stood at the door to the cell, staring.

  “But—but—”

  Payton sighed heavily and went to pluck it out of the man’s hands. “I chose you because you’re used to royalty, MacIlroy. You’ll na’ be easily turned by false things. Evil things.”

  “What things?”

  “Fame. Appearances. Wealth.”

  Payton was unfurling one of his plainest kilts. One he hadn’t worn in over a year. There was no shirt. No loin wrap. No brooch. No shine. Anywhere.

  “And look. You have attire that is jaw-dropping. Suitable attire. And you make me bring you what? That?”

  “I’m killing two men tonight, MacIlroy. And then I will see to the killing of a heart. Mine. There is nae suitable attire for that. You ken?”

  The man gulped. Nodded.

  “Good. Now, hand over the belt. Boots. You did well, MacIlroy. Verra well. Your service is to be commended.”

  “But—”

  “Now, go. Lead the way. You’re the chosen escort to the champion! On the eve of his great battle! You need to start acting it!”

  “Well, I’ve a message a-fore we go.”

  “What?”

  “They called him Davey. I doona’ ken what it means, but there you go. Your message.”

  The solid spurt of his heart sent such weakening emotion through all his limbs, that Payton swayed against the door. The slam of it hitting the wall was loud and abrasive in this otherwise silent place. He willed the sensation dead, and within two more heartbeats he’d succeeded, gained the focus back. And the intent. Payton straightened, looked forward again and followed MacIlroy.

  The drums were still thumping out a steady rhythm, making certain all in the complex knew of the challenge, or had no excuse for not knowing it. Payton followed the announcer, who was starting to get ribbons and kisses flung at him, and women leaning forward for glimpses of full bosoms. He watched as the announcer straightened and started waving back.

  It brought the shadow of a smile to his mouth before he let it drop.

  He’d been spotted. The drums ceased then, and bagpipes started up instead, filling the grounds at Edinburgh Castle with swells of sound. And over that was the enormous crowd sound, drowning out the king’s hand-picked bagpipers, as cheers and shouts rang out.

  Payton ignored it, turning a deaf ear to all but the inner workings of his mind. The spins. The twists. The gyrations that would see him through this.

  Although it was late afternoon, they had tents set up all along the list, their roofs keeping the light mist of rain off all the torches they’d lit, and putting the light back onto the field better.

  Payton watched his challengers. They were both large men, packed with muscle. They were proud of themselves and strutting about the edges of the wide swath of field that was marked with poles. Greeting the crowd. Puffing out their chests and posing. Hollering for the effect.

  Payton watched them, looking silently at how their muscles moved beneath the skin. Evaluating. Checking. One had a slight limp, left side. The other had a large scar along his back…also left side. The limping one looked all shiny with sweat. Already. But he might have used oil on his skin. That would make him slick to hang on to.

  Payton stepped into the list, standing for long moments as the din grew to encompass the sky. He was watching as it interfered with the challengers. He waited for them to turn and eye him. Payton lowered his chin and observed. He didn’t glare. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t move.

  The scarred one shifted first, breaking eye contact as he jostled the other.

  He was going to go down first.

  “Ladies! Clansmen! All rise for King James!”

  Payton turned toward the raised platform that the king would sit on. He had his current mistress at his side. And courtiers surrounding everywhere else. Everyone waited until the monarch was seated and then the announcements came again.

  “The challengers! Derrick Kilchurning of Clan Kilchurning, and Edward the Lion from Clan MacKettryk.”

  Derrick was the scarred one. He’d had the ring. The widow must have put in the other challenger. That was interesting. Payton’s lip lifted as he wondered what reward the widow had promised the man.

  “And the King’s Champion, Payton Dunn-Fadden of Clan Dunn-Fadden.”

  His applause was deafening. And Payton lifted both arms toward them and turned in a slow circle, waiting as they all evaluated, noted, and exclaimed. He’d lost a bit in weight, but gained sinew, strength, and endurance. And it was obvious.

  He put his arms back to his sides and approached the center. There was another announcer fellow standing there. And beside him were three other men, all holding weapons.

  “You get one weapon each. Dunn-Fadden can have two.”

  “Nae,” Payton replied. “I take one.”

  The man nodded and turned to his opponents. He watched as they talked amongst themselves. From the way they were talking, it appeared they were speaking of strategy. And timing. They were far too late for that. And they hadn’t practiced together much. All of that was apparent.

  He watched as they went forward. The limping one chose a hand-ax. The scarred one a sword. They stepped back, one of them circling to the left. The other to the right. Just out of arm range.

  Payton stepped forward and took another broadsword. He checked for balance and dexterity by swinging it in elegant swift slashes through the air. He nodded his approval and moved back, also, keeping in mind where the opponents were with a constant scan.

  Circling. Scanning. Payton bided his time, swiveling with the sword held out in his right hand, and his left with nothing. Spinning on the ball of one foot to scan from a different direction. Limp lunged slightly, waving the hand-ax with small, jabbing motions. A solitary drummer started thumping the large drum, sending throbs of sound through him. The crowd was chanting, too.

  The scarred one moved slightly inward, with a swift quick motion, his sword slashing the air in front of him. Payton was already turned for the other’s charge, and at the moment of impact, one foot went down on the opponent’s foot, with punishing force since it was his limping side, and then Payton slammed his shoulder into the man, knocking him to the ground.

  A moment later, Payton was up, swiveling to face the other’s sword, catching the blade with his own and sending it uselessly to the ground. And going in close to land a powerful blow to the man’s scarred side. The man’s release of air told Payton what he needed. Then, he was on his hands and knees and whirling with one leg to take the legs out from under the limping one again.

  Up. Spinning toward the scarred one. Parrying the sword thrust once, twice. The third time, he turned the hilt around, and used it on the man’s sword hand, hearing the crunch of bone.

  Scar cried out and dropped the blade, only to pick it up with his left hand.

  Limp was back on his feet, and charging. Payton spun, planted his sword point in the ground and launched himself straight up atop it, doing the same hand-stand as before, only in midair, for the one moment of time it took for the limping one to stumble past, his ax swinging at air.
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  Payton fell, pulling his sword the moment he was on the ground and staying on his knees to swing at that level. He got Scar across the lower legs, the blade slicing nearly bone deep, and the man went down. Useless. Payton grabbed up the discarded sword, ignoring the blood spurting from his opponent’s legs, to spin with both blades out, in the event he’d miscalculated Limp’s mobility.

  The other challenger was charging, his limp even more noticeable as he moved. His face was a grimace of hatred, and his eyes were ugly with intent.

  Payton tossed the unneeded sword, bent his knees, willed the tenseness into his legs, the spring, the readiness, the ability.

  Limp was using his hand-ax in a lever motion as he ran, pumping it from side to side. That made it a matter of rhythm to launch at him, grab the ax on one slashing move, and use it as a base to pivot around the man. The rotation made Limp spin too, sending him to his knees because of his injured leg. Payton slashed him deeply, in a horizontal motion, through the muscles at the backs of both legs, sending that opponent to the ground as well. Useless.

  It was the champion’s signature. Get the opponent to the ground. And keep them there. Battle over.

  Payton went over to his second sword. Took it up and walked back over to Scar, working the swords through the air as he went. The man had pain etched all through him, and something else. Fear was huge in his eyes, and he stiffened, preparing himself. Payton locked eyes with him, put one blade against the scarred side, letting it pierce the already ravaged skin, and then he was demanding his ring.

  Scar had a sly look to him. Payton had no choice.

  “The ring or your hand,” he replied, moving his other sword there.

  It didn’t surprise him that the man moved. Death was one thing, deformity another. He watched without expression as Scar rapidly pulled the Dunn-Fadden ring from his hand. Payton put the sword tip out and Scar slid the ring onto it.