Knight's Blood

by Julianne Lee

  Hector’s loud voice cut through the ambient noise of breakfasting knights. “Introduce me to your guest, brother! And curse me for a blind man if he isn’t a relation from your Hungary!” The Barra laird, wearing little more than tunic, trews, and a long, ugly brown plaid draped over his shoulder, strode up the room, snagged a chair from one of the lower tables, and set it behind Alex and Trefor. Then he leaned between them, took a slab of meat from Trefor’s plate, and sat back on the chair to eat. Trefor stared at him with an evil look in his eye that Alex wanted to slap from his face. Hector was a good friend, and if not an actual brother, nevertheless behaved as much of one as Pete or Carl.

  “Hector MacNeil of Barra, this is my cousin from Hungary, Trefor Pawlowski.”

  Hector laughed out loud, then lowered his voice and said, “Why the story? Who is he in actuality?”

  Alex also lowered his voice. “He’s my son.”

  Now Hector’s face fell. “Truth to tell? Ye wouldnae lie to me, brother?”

  “Never. He’s my stolen son, all grown up. Faeries did it.”

  Alarm crossed Hector’s face at the mention of faeries, and he eyed Trefor. “And why is he here?”

  Trefor said, a testy edge to his voice, “You don’t have to talk like I’m not here.” He spoke Middle English. A bit stiffly, but it was understandable.

  Alex gazed at him. Huh. What else about Trefor did he still need to know? “Where’d you learn to speak the language?” Alex continued in the archaic tongue, for the benefit of Hector, who had English, Gaelic, and a little Latin.

  “I have a gift for languages. I know all the major modern European ones, some minor ones, a little Chinese and Japanese. I’m a wiz with Farsi, and I speak fluent Klingon. Picking up Middle English in preparation for this trip was like falling off a log.”

  “Gaelic?”

  “Modern Scottish Gaelic and medieval Gaelic. I was lucky enough to find an instructor who knew both.”

  Alex grunted once and considered that, then turned to Hector. “He came to claim his birthright. I’ve explained to him there is none, but he wants to stay anyway and help me look for my wife.”

  “My mother. And you’re not going to find her.”

  “But we’re going to go looking anyway.”

  “Pissing up a rope.”

  “It’s my rope. My piss.”

  Hector butted in loudly. “Very well, then! It’s a search we’ll have. A hunt for the fair Lady Marilyn Pawlowski MacNeil.”

  Trefor peered at Alex and frowned. “You let them think you married your cousin?”

  “Distant cousin. It’s really the foster sister thing that is stickier here. No actual law, but it’s frowned upon.”

  “It’s not like — “

  “The two of you put your heads together, you’ll find the woman.” Hector leaned forward to grab another piece of meat from Trefor’s plate, then sat back to eat it. His cheeks stuffed with food, he said, “I see he’s a MacNeil to the core, Ailig.”

  Alex gave Hector only a bland stare, then said to Trefor, “Show him your ears.”

  “No.”

  “I said, show him.” The threat in his voice was to let Trefor know he would draw blood if Trefor didn’t comply.

  Slowly the younger man raised a hand to draw aside the hair covering one ear.

  “Och,” said Hector.

  “If he’s a MacNeil — if he didn’t get those from me — where did they come from?”

  “Faeries. ‘Tis a mark of faeries. Had he been left instead of stolen, I’d be calling him changeling.”

  “What’s a changeling?”

  “When a child is stolen, the faeries leave behind one of their own. Sometimes identical to the child but weak and failing, sometimes a creature plainly not human at all.”

  Alex remembered the crib splattered with dust. Slowly he said, “And... if one were to kill such a creature, would it turn to dust then and there?”

  Hector nodded. “I’ve heard of it.” He leaned toward Trefor, his eyes wide, gawking at the faerie man before him. He leaned to see, but Trefor brushed his hair over his ears and made sure they were covered.

  Alex said, “Faerie blood you say? You mean those goofy little folks who are all mad as hatters?” He’d almost rather it had been that elf, Nemed.

  Hector shook his head. “I cannae say. But if he’s your son and your wife’s, one of you has given him the blood. And I can see he’s your son. There cannae be any doubt about that.”

  Alex made a disparaging noise in the back of his throat. “My kingdom for a DNA test kit.”

  Only Trefor snorted at that, for half the sentence was necessarily in modern English and the reference was to a play that wouldn’t be written for another two and a half centuries.

  Trefor asked, “What does An Dubhar mean? Your nickname?”

  Now Alex’s bland gaze fell on his son. “I thought you knew Gaelic.”

  “I’m fluent, not a scholar. This particular word has escaped me until now.”

  “It means The Darkness. Shadow of Death.”

  Trefor grunted. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.” He grinned, then continued. “For I am the meanest sonofabitch in the valley.”

  Alex stifled a groan.

  Chapter Seven

  A small town not far from Carlisle lay unsuspecting in the path of the company led by An Reubair. Lindsay looked down the slope at the cluster of wooden buildings set around what passed for a town square, thin trails of smoke from cook fires drifting skyward through holes in dusty gray thatching. Her gut tightened to a knot. No fear of dying; she knew how to deal with that particular terror. It was the knowledge she would have to kill someone today in order not to die herself that made her jaw grind shut and her hands grip the reins too tightly. As refuge from the guilt, she told herself she was on the right side, that Scottish freedom from Edward was a worthy fight. If she could convince herself this was no different from the battle she’d fought at Bannockbum, perhaps her heart would carry her through this raid. She’d fought willingly under Robert, and not just because she’d known the Scots would win. She truly believed the attempt of Edward Ito usurp the Scottish crown was not in the best interest of the Scots. It was a valid fight. She had to believe that.

  But this raid was different. These were not combatant knights they would attack; they were farmers and townsfolk. Never mind that they paid tribute to the English crown; they didn’t deserve what was about to happen to them. Gazing down at the small buildings clustered around a proud stone church, she drew deep, steady breaths and prepared herself for what she must do, though she hated it.

  Horses approached from the flank. Two of them, and Lindsay looked over to see An Reubair and someone else. The other figure rode a fine steed with a glossy coat and a rich, flowing bard. The stranger wore no armor and didn’t appear equipped to ride along on the raid. Something about him caught her interest, and she stared hard. He was too far away to see clearly, but the way he moved, the shape of his frame and the long, long hair that lifted in the breeze made her stare to know who he was. His identity eluded her, and she began to think she was imagining the familiarity. When An Reubair raised his hand in farewell to the man and rode toward his gathered men, she shook off the curiosity and attended to the job at hand. Distraction would get her killed; Alex had told her that often enough, and she trusted him in all things martial. So she focused, steadied her breath, and waited for the signal to charge.

  An Reubair said only, “Go.”

  The hundred or so men and Lindsay kicked their horses to a gallop, and when they were in earshot of the town a roar went up from them to put fear into the hearts of their targets. Men ran from houses, bearing whatever weapon or farm tool was at hand. Women screamed to their children. Children stood and stared at the oncoming riders.

  Lindsay chose an opponent and rode down on him, but one of her compatriots beat her to him and engaged the local man with his sword. Lindsay swerved off to pi
ck out another defender, and hauled back her sword to lay on. The man was on foot and defended with a sickle. He was surprisingly deft with it and knew how to catch her sword with the curve of his blade. Crowding him with her horse only got her mount stabbed in the haunch, so she wheeled to take advantage of her longer weapon. She swung hard and beat him back. Then another quick swing and she caught his face hard with the tip of her blade. His head jerked backward and blood flew. He dropped his sickle and grabbed his bleeding wound, screaming. His eye was gone and a deep gash split his face from ear to forehead. She moved onward, knowing that though this guy might live, he wasn’t going to fight any more that day. Hope rose that she might yet prove herself to her employer without having to kill anyone for now.

  A woman came at her with a rod of some kind, and Lindsay swung her blade at it. “Get away!” she shouted at the fool. It was a piece of wood. The nitwit woman was going to get herself killed. “Go! Hide!”

  But the woman screamed at her and tried to whack her with the pole again. Lindsay wheeled her horse to crowd her. “Get away, you idiot!” But the woman wouldn’t. Lindsay’s horse, trained to battle, reared to strike at the combatant on foot. The woman went down, and the horse trampled her. Lindsay reined off to the side and rode away. There was no point in looking back to see if the woman would get up; Lindsay had other more important business to handle. A man with a bow was shooting into the fray, and she went after him.

  It was a small hunting bow, not the longbows used in battle, but it was putting a dent in the attackers. In a fury, Lindsay rode down on him from behind and took a long, leisurely swing at the back of his head as she passed. He went down like a bag of rocks, and the bow clattered to the ground beside him.

  Lindsay knew the man was dead. No point in thinking about that now; she needed to stay alive herself. Several of the raiders were on foot now, engaged with local swordsmen. Lindsay picked out one of the defenders and rode past to knock him on his helmet. Her blow didn’t kill him, but it dazed him enough for her compatriot to finish him off easily. She wheeled and rode back to the fray, this time choosing another defender. Again she enabled her fellow raider to prevail. Twice more she did that, and about that time the fighting began to dwindle. The clash of weapons stilled, and soon only the sounds of weeping women and crying children were left. Some survivors ran from the village, across tilled fields, and into a forest to the south. The men of An Reubair began the job of gathering the spoils.

  Lindsay dismounted to help gather the livestock from pens and barns. Others would deal with the surrendered people; she didn’t want to see them. They were English, as she was, and she had no desire to think too hard on how she felt about that. These days she didn’t really want to think too hard about anything beyond her purpose, which was to find Nemed and her son.

  Ankle-deep in the mud near a sheep pen, struggling with a ewe who objected to being taken from her home, Lindsay looked up to see that stranger talking to An Reubair again. Nearer to him this time, Lindsay stared hard and a tingling stole up her spine. Now she recognized the man in such close conversation with her boss.

  God help her, it was Nemed.

  She muttered a curse under her breath that might have gotten her burned at the stake had anyone heard who cared, and dropped the ewe. The animal went scrambling, then slowed to a nonchalant walk toward her fellows. Nemed. A thrill coursed through Lindsay at her excellent good luck, and she reached for her dagger. He was right there, talking to An Reubair, and without further thought she drew her weapon and headed toward him.

  But the elfin king chose that moment to rein his horse around and ride away in the other direction, leaving her on foot with her impotent dagger in her fist. An Reubair also wheeled to ride to the village. Lindsay missed her chance and muttered a four-letter Anglo-Saxon vulgarism that would not have been understood had it been heard, for it was only vulgar in modern English. She scabbarded her dagger and returned to her work. But then she turned again, looking after the retreating rider on his splendid horse.

  What was Nemed doing there? What involvement did he have with An Reubair?

  She slapped the arm of Simon, who was passing with a lamb in his arms, and said, “Who is that?” She nodded at Nemed in the distance. “He was talking to An Reubair just now, and I saw him before the attack.”

  Simon looked. “Aye, that there would be the elf king, Nemed.” He said it as if elves were the most ordinary thing in the world, and not the fey, elusive, and rare beings Lindsay knew them to be. In fact, Nemed was the only one left of his kind.

  “You know him? An Reubair knows him, too?”

  Simon looked at her as if she’d just said something incredibly stupid. “Of course. Did you not know we are under his banner?”

  Whatever banner Simon might be talking about, Lindsay hadn’t seen it. Their group traveled like pirates, without identification of any kind and alert to elude anyone who might smack of authority. This news was dumbfounding. “We work for him? Nemed?”

  “Indeed. Fully a third of what we bring back to Scotland goes to his pockets.” He held up the lamb and grinned. “Except this. Tonight we eat well, and in England.” A sly laugh burbled from him.

  “You know he’s an elf?”

  “Of course I do. Just as I know An Reubair is a faerie. One of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Can you not see it yourself?”

  Now Lindsay was truly stunned, and she looked off toward An Reubair, who was now in conference with Jenkins near a burned house that was falling to ashes and throwing showers of sparks to the wind.

  Simon continued. “How could you not know? The fey can nearly always be picked out by the way they keep their ears covered with their hair. The longer and more carefully arranged a man’s locks are, the more likely he is to be hiding the mark. There are many in our company who are exiled Danann.”

  Lindsay looked back at Simon. The lamb was restless in his arms, and he fought to keep it under control. She said, feeling stupid, “But he’s a Christian.”

  Simon shrugged and gave her a look so blank she didn’t know how to even approach the question of a Christian faerie.

  So she dropped it and asked, “What is their purpose here?”

  “Plunder.” Of course. It was why they all were here. He looked at her as if to add, Duh.

  “Nemed is an elf. If An Reubair is Danann, he’s also a magical man. Why are they here? Why do they need to fight?”

  Now Simon shrugged and his brow furrowed with his hard thinking. “The powers can come and go, as I understand it. And I hear the magic is costly to life. Were it a simple or easy way to amass riches, I’m certain all kings would be fey and wars would be fought in the sky with lightning bolts.”

  Lindsay’s head shook from side to side, and she looked off in the direction Nemed had taken. Her dismay then began to turn to hope. This might be a good thing. If she stuck around, Nemed was sure to be back eventually. All she had to do was wait until he would return. And then she could kill him once she’d made him give back her son. A tiny smile curved the corners of her mouth, and she returned her attention to the sheep and went back to work gathering livestock for herding to Scotland.

  So... An Reubair was a faerie. One of the Tuatha Dé Danann, like Danu. Lindsay couldn’t figure it. She’d met Danu once. The woman was graceful, polite, and regal. Everything An Reubair was not. But An Reubair was a bandit, associated with an elfin king who had no followers, without a place among the people of Danu. Surely he was an outcast.

  Lindsay began to look for faeries among the other knights and noticed several of her compatriots kept their ears covered. Not Simon, nor Jenkins, but two others for a certainty — she glimpsed their ears — and possibly one other who tied back his long hair in an unfashionable queue, tight over the tips of his ears. Now that this had been pointed out to her, it seemed obvious and she wondered how she’d missed it.

  She considered her baby. The tiny points at the tops of his ears had horrified her. At first she’d thought it was an indication of a
birth defect of some sort, and she feared for his health. But then she realized it was the elf. He’d done something. No telling what, but only magic could have given her and Alex’s child those ears. The sign of the fey. Her heart felt sick and she wondered what else was happening to her child.

  ***

  That night was spent in celebration of their success that day. Fires dotted the field where they made camp, and sheep carcasses on spits threw delicious smells into the breeze. Several knights played instruments or sang ballads, some of them extempore, about that day’s adventure, and hilarity ran high. Working off the adrenaline from the day’s fight, Lindsay shared the mood. Glad to be one of the ones left alive, she drank more than her share of mead, for though she considered it a drink fit only for crude, classless, immature cretins, it was all there was to be had that would take the edge off the world for a while.

  Women came to share in the food and festivity. The poorest from the destroyed village, they were happy to gather coins and eat whatever they could stuff into their mouths in exchange for giving comfort to those who had taken those things from fellow townsfolk. Like hookers of the future, the whores hung onto the men and jockeyed for the ones who seemed wealthiest. Lindsay, leaning against a tree just slightly beyond the light of one fire, slugged down a cuach of mead and watched the pageant of human reproductive behavior and social dominance with idle interest.

  Simon had a likely bird in hand and was groping her through her skirts. The woman played coy and backed up, laughing so he would know she was only playing and would soon succumb to his obvious charm. He kept coming until she was backed up against the fire and her skirts caught. Then followed a bit of panicky stamping out of her skirts, but it was a momentary distraction and the two were quickly back on track with fondling each other. Lindsay smiled to herself, for she’d seen Jenkins already have his way with this particular woman earlier in the evening, and knew Simon was seducing someone else’s mess. And spending an awful lot of energy to get it, all things considered. Since there were only seven or eight visitors that night among thirty or so of An Reubair’s men, it was certain the women would all be well used by morning, and their pockets and stomachs would be well filled.