Lord and Lady Challon, Lord RavenHawke and Lady Coinnleir had been requested to show. Both Julian and Damian knew there was no ignoring the royal summons.
Aithinne sat upon her mouse color mare, Gràdh― Darling―riding beside Tamlyn. Her cousin guided Goblin―her wedding gift from Challon―with less than her usual adroit skill. It gave concern. Tamlyn was a superior rider, but she seemed to be distressed beyond the uncomfortable circumstances, and transferred that unease to the nervous horse. The black mare kept breaking ranks, dancing sideways, and sweating in fear. The horse again rocked wildly, sidestepping, then backing up to where its flanks crashed into the side of Gràdh.
“Tamlyn, have care!” Aithinne frowned, trying to steer her horse out of the path of Goblin, but Tamlyn kept looking about her, as if she really did not see what was happening. It was clear she was panicked, though not the reason why.
“Sorry.” Tamlyn looked at her with worried eyes, so unlike her level-headed cousin.
Aithinne frowned, but at the situation more than Tamlyn. “What troubles you?”
Tamlyn smiled, but there was no humor to it. “Nightmares. The likes I hope you never have. Nightmares that I fear we are heading into and there be no escape.”
Just then the wind shifted, carrying upon it a sweet, sickening odor, warning of what lay ahead. Aithinne reeled from the foul stench, reining hard on Gràdh to keep her from bolting. Unable to abide the fetor, she reached out and snatched up the hem of her kirtle, pulling it over her mouth and nose. The only way she could breathe.
Grim of face, Challon barked, “We be downwind of Berwick.”
The Dragon’s horse pranced sideways, as he turned it back so he could speak to them. “Tamlyn, Lady Aithinne, there is no way to prepare you for what lies ahead.”
“By the Holy Virgin, what sort of brainsickness is this?” Damian gasped. “There are no words to describe this foulness.”
“It is no more than I feared.” Challon moved his steed back in position next to Damian, then he glanced over his shoulder with a worried expression at Tamlyn. Julian replied lowly, so Aithinne could overhear only part of his words. “…remember to thank Edward for the coming experience…he commanded the bodies should be left until Scotland was brought to heel. I fear it is precisely what has happened.”
Damian stared at Julian in horror. “Not even Edward would subject us to this. Think of the ill airs. He cannot…no man would―”
Julian’s mouth formed into a line of grim determination. “Be prepared, Damian. Heed this well—show no tender feelings toward the Lady Aithinne before Edward. None toward Tamlyn. Let him believe we are resigned to our fate, but not pleased. Tell Edward whatever he wishes to hear, offer no resistance to any of his policies. Let us make haste to leave this mockery of a parliament as soon as possible. Most of all―trust no one. At all times hold close to the Lady Aithinne. Keep her safe. Then, mayhap we might escape Berwick with our heads.”
Despite the heat of the hot August day, Aithinne shivered.
♦◊♦
Trying to control her revulsion, Aithinne fixed her eyes on Damian’s back, where he rode alongside Challon. Hot resentment bubbled in her blood. Resentment was good. Anger was good. It kept her mind focused on wanting to kick him, instead of opening her mouth and screaming at the horrors about them as they rode through what was left of the town of Berwick. She did not want the images of dead bodies, over four months decomposed, to be burned into her memory. Thus she targeted Damian.
“Ceann-clò,” she muttered, calling him block-head in the Gaelic.
Tamlyn had proved too excitable, unable to handle her mount. Fearing she would unseat herself, and possibly be trampled under the hooves of the spooked horses, Challon had lifted his wife from the back of Goblin and now carried her before him on his mighty destrier.
“Sir Nodcock troubles naught what happens to me,” she groused under her breath.
Moffet riding to her left said, “Beg pardon, Lady Aithinne. Were you addressing me?”
“Nay, I merely made comment that your lord father could no’ care less if I fall off my horse and get stamped to death,” she said sourly. This whole ugly situation was wearing her down. She was ready to cry. Instead, she vented her pain and aggravation upon Damian, hoping to get through this foul miasma as best as she could.
“That is not so, my lady. My father asked that I ride next to you, assure you were protected.”
Finding distraction in the high dudgeon, her mouth compressed into a grimace, determined to continue on with her peeve. “Oh, aye, I oft settle for crumbs from the table.”
The handsome lad on the verge of manhood offered her a smile. “Methinks, Lady Aithinne, you speak in riddles.”
“Gervase!” Challon called.
“Yea, my lord.” The squire spurred his steed past Moffet and Aithinne to catch up to his liege.
Challon, still cradling Tamlyn in front of him, spoke over her head. He tossed the man the reins to Tamlyn’s riderless mount. “Take the lead on Goblin and lead her. Ride in front of us with Vincent and Michael. Carry the standard high. Let everyone know the Dragon of Challon comes.”
♦◊♦
Hard-bitten and dour-faced, Julian and Damian rode behind the phalanx formed by the squires, forcing their way into the fallen town. Aithinne’s heart broke as they spurred past women on foot, tearfully hiding behind their kerchiefs. Women with haunted eyes that bespoke their loved ones had died in this wasted town. Aithinne went back to holding the hem of her gown to her face, so desperate not to gag at the overwhelming pall, floating in the air like a black fog. Her tears stained the rust colored material.
The horses’ hooves clattered over the wooden bridge, spanning the wide, dry ditch meant for defense, and then into the arched stone entrance of Castle Berwick’s bailey, finally their journey’s end reached. Off to the right, Aithinne spotted the Douglas standard draped, half dragging in the mud. Blue stars on a silver field―the flag that had flown over the castle’s ramparts, before Berwick was invested by the English back in the spring. Now, the proud Douglas standard was splattered with horseshite, object of English spite and ridicule.
Aithinne fought dizziness as they finally came to a halt. The squires rushed forward to take control of their mounts.
Damian dismounted and came to help her from Gràdh. His eyes stared into hers for a long instant, so many thoughts swirling in the pale depths, sorrow, fury, regret, but he said naught. Too near fainting, Aithinne let the moment pass and turned away.
So shaken by Damian’s expression, she spun on her heels and immediately slammed hard into the chest of another. Phelan Comyn. His hands caught her by the elbows to steady her. Unsettled for some reason, she jerked back. His grip held her firm. She glowered at him, unblinking. Something in his manner made her feel as if she looked into the face of a stranger.
“Aithinne, how have you been? You are as lovely as ever.” The handsome man smiled, only the gaze had as much warmth as a hungry wolf salivating over a newborn lambkin.
“So sorry to learn you are going blind as well as a lackwit, Phelan.” Once more, she tried to yank away from his hold.
The smile remained in place, though there was a hard edge to his eyes. “And as sweet of nature, I see.”
Damian moved into the edge of her vision. “Let go of my―”
“Wife, Lord RavenHawke? I think no’. No marriage was performed at Lyonglen―no’ for your grandsire, nor for you. Aye, the priest was called, but for Last Rites, methinks.” His expression glowed triumphant.
“By my English laws, mayhap my betrothed wouldst suit better. Howbeit, I avowed I was wed to the Lady Aithinne before Challon, her brothers and Dinsmore. Then, repeated the claim before you, again with Challon as a witness.” He lifted his black brows in gloat. “You forget I am half-Scot. I respect the ways of my lady màthair. Old Pictish law says if a man declares a woman as his wife before witnesses and she gives her aye, then they are wed. Edward commanded that I claim the Lady Aithi
nne as my lady wife when he granted the charter to Glen Eallach, same as he ordered Challon to wed one of the Earl Hadrian’s lady daughters. Edward was too busy putting the boot to Scotland’s spine when Challon married with the Lady Tamlyn. What do you think? Mayhap, I might gift him with the satisfaction of a Christian ceremony whilst we are at Berwick. Think he will be most pleased?”
Phelan’s eyes shifted between Aithinne and the black-haired man who just stole his joy at causing a bit of mischief. “Some say you are naught but a bastard, another dragon from the litter of Michael Challon.”
“You think I have not heard the chatter of lose tongues?” Damian’s body moved with a small derisive laugh. “I loved my sire, but also looked upon Michael Challon as a second father, since he fostered me. If I were his likelylad, I wouldst find naught but honor in the hand of fate. Howbeit, think twice if you plan to drag that worn out tale to Edward to tattle. I can tell you ’tis one he’s heard a score times over. He knows from whose loins I sprang. Even if it were true, it wouldst make no difference. I am Lyonglen now. Edward raised me to such. He is the law of this land. What he says is what will be. If you do not know this, you shall learn in the next few days.”
Aithinne had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at Phelan’s disappointment.
Damian smiled as he took Aithinne’s arm. “We will excuse you, Phelan. You needs must go to get in line with the rest of the Scots, whilst I escort my lady out of this killing heat.”
♦◊♦
Halberd-bearing minions in dented jacks stood at the entrance to Castle Berwick’s courtyard, asking of the arriving people, “English or Scots?” Their evil faces bespoke their enjoyment at threatening the Scottish nobles.
Aithinne noticed the English were steered to the right, and quickly led into the cool stone castle, out of the scorching noon sun. Scots were not so lucky. They were herded to the left and to slowly snaked outside the bailey, through a side postern door and then into the inner ward. From there, they were forced across the cobbled courtyard and were actually hustled toward the kitchen. She frowned at the deliberate humiliation. Scots were shepherded into the castle proper through the servants’ entrance. An insult. More cruelly, they were not permitted to break from the long line to get a drink of water or even to relieve themselves. Double ranks of armed guards, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, held their halberd points like a schilltron, turning the Scots back to the column should they attempt to leave it.
The dark stones of the castle sweated in the summer humidity. The whole area reeked of burning pine-pitch from the torches lining the walls, trying to mask the repellent haze hovering over the streets. The mix of the two fouls only made things worse.
The walk from the gatehouse to the Great Hall seemed to take forever. By the time they entered, Tamlyn looked barely able to stand. Aithinne needed to lie down, but she judged her cousin looked even worse. Even so, Tamlyn nervously took Aithinne’s arm, lending her support. “I am no’ sure which of us fares worse.”
“The air. . .’tis suffocating. I canno’ breathe.” Aithinne felt her knees weakening. Damian suddenly wrapped an arm around her, adding his strength. She smiled up at him weakly.
Challon came rushing up. “I’ve secured a room. The four of us shall have to share the bed. I ordered the squires to bed down on the floor for added safety. There simply is just no space in this madness. Come.”
♦◊♦
Aithinne dabbed the wet cloth to the back of her neck, fighting lightheadedness.
She had stripped down to her chemise, and cared not that squires for Challon and Damian were carrying in their baggage. She had to cool down, or she was going to be ill.
“We have to share the bed, but ’tis large enough.” Tamlyn sat on the end, leaning against the bedpost. “The mattress does no’ show signs of vermin and not too lumpy. I brought some ground walnut leaves. Just to be sure, I shall sprinkle them on the bloody thing before we go down to supper. It will chase away fleas, if there are any. I suppose we are honored in getting a room so spacious in this crush. All of Scotland seems here. I must admit, I am a bit overwhelmed. Unlike Raven and Rowanne, I have never been to court. I am no’ used to all these…people. I really wish we did no’ have to be in this accursed place.”
Damian entered wearing a grin. “’Tis not much, but it might make you ladies more comfortable.” It was a small wooden footbath. Moffet and Vincent carried in buckets of cool water.”
“Not much…” Aithinne laughed. “I wouldst pay its weight in gold. Thank you, my lord.”
“I wish I could do more. If there had been any way around it, I wouldst have left you behind. I would do all to prevent your mind from being burdened with this…horror.” Damian took the damp rag and pressed it to her forehead. “You look unwell, my lady.”
Aithinne watched his pale eyes, wondering if she should ask the question gnawing on her mind. Mayhap she should just let it be and try to get through this ordeal. Once they were back at Lyonglen, then she would face the situation. Pushing the impulse aside, she asked, “How long must we remain in this cesspit?”
“As long as Edward wishes. We have to think of Glen Eallach and Glen Shane. Let us get through this torment. Then, we shall make haste to return home, and merciful heaven, never step foot within a hundred leagues near here.”
Aithinne nodded, but knew neither distance nor time would ever erase the images of dead bodies being picked over by ravens. It was bad enough such things happened in this world. Worse to know a man used it as a means to control a conquered country.
“I suggest, Aithinne, you rest. This eve promises to be a long one.”
♦◊♦
Aithinne trembled as she sat on a bench outside of the chamber, awaiting an audience before the king. Tamlyn sat next to her, but paid little attention to Aithinne. Her cousin’s attention was fixed on the door since Challon was in there with Edward.
No sooner than the Challon party had retired to their chamber after the long supper, and were trying to settle in bed for the night, a servant came knocking with word the king wanted to see Lord RavenHawke and Lady Coinnleir first thing come morn. Aithinne feared Phelan had somehow gotten Edward’s ear and had spread his poison.
Too upset by the pending audience, she jumped up and started pacing again, only to have Damian glare at her. Nothing new in that. He had been glaring at her a lot since the previous evening, when the bloody know-all king had taken great pleasure in announcing in the Great Hall―before the English nobility present and a large portion of Scotland’s―that she was with child.
Aithinne shut her eyes against the image of the whole horrid affair. Damian had escorted her into the Great Hall, behind Tamlyn and Challon. Tamlyn and she had just made their curtsey to the king, and what did the arrogant man do?―he told Tamlyn and her to arise that he understood heat was stressful on ladies carrying babes in their bellies! Then, he went on to talk about his beloved late queen Elinor, and how she had fatigued in the early stages of breeding. By all, she wished the bloody Englishman to perdition. He even slapped Challon and Damian on their backs and congratulated them!
“Could no’ even wait for a private audience,” she muttered under her breath. Putting her thumbnail to her mouth, she was tempted to chew on it. Anything to stop the flow of words. She glanced over at Tamlyn to see if her cousin took note of her bletherings.
“What say, Aithinne?” Damian asked drolly, knowing she was talking to herself and not him or Tamlyn.
“Amadán.” Calling him a fool was not the smartest tact to take, so she removed her thumb and forced a smile. “Why nothing, my lord. I merely pondered how much longer we must wait, that is all.”
He folded his arms over his chest, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned his shoulder against the wall. “We wait until we are called. All day if need be. I am sure Edward will be mindful a woman breeding fatigues easily and shan’t keep us dawdling too long, eh?”
Unable to sit any longer, she paced the length of
the small hall, and tried to think of something to do with her hands―other than strangle Damian St. Giles.
Several people―Richard De Burgh, Elizabeth, his daughter, and a stranger went by and were given admittance. She watched the younger man and wondered who he was.
“Gilbert de Clare, Earl Glouster, and son-by-law to Edward,” Damian informed her, as if he was reading her thoughts. “You might as well stop pacing and sit, Aithinne.”
Figuring she did not need to annoy him any more than he already was, she sat. It did not take long before she grew restless again, she huffed. “My Seeding of Scotland Campaign. I see the lords of Challon wield their mighty swords for the good of England.’” She mimicked the king’s words in a high tone, unable just to sit still.
Damian sat and closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. At least, she thought he pretended. Sweat trickled down her spine, making her itch. She wiggled trying to alleviate the irritation. Seeing the spray of peacock feathers in the tall vase on a table, she walked slowly over and plucked one out. At first, she had considered seeing if she could slide it down the back of her kirtle to relieve the maddening annoyance. Only, she came up with a better use for it. With silent steps she approached Damian. She leaned close and peeked at him, trying to discern if he really slumbered. When he continued in the even, shallow breathing, she waved the end of the fanned feather lightly against his nose. He did not react, so she brushed the beautiful feather against his cheek.
He moved so fast. She jumped. Damian caught the feather and held on. “’Tis not a wise policy to mock the king in funny voices.” He opened his lids and glared at her—again.
She smiled innocently. “What about unfunny voices, my lord?”
“Use any voice you wish―once we are back at Glen Eallach. Here you do so at peril of losing your life,” he cautioned. “And mine.”
RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2) Page 26