A Restless Knight
Dragons of Challon – Book One
by
Deborah Macgillivray
A Restless Knight
COPYRIGHT © 2006, 2017 by Deborah Macgillivray
Prairie Rose Publications
www.prairierosepublications.com
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Printing: July 2006
Reprint of Original Novel: 2017
To some special people for being there:
Lynsay Sands, Monika Wolmarans,
Lori Karayianni
Diane D. White
Detra Fitch
and
those who are no longer with us but always in our hearts
Dawn Thompson and Miss Fuzz
Maggie Davis
Tony Karayianni
Foutchie
and
with continued love and gratefulness for that wonderful hussy,
Hilary Sares, Queen of the Virgins
and
Candy Thompson
Chapter One
“…that something in thyne dominion, heed it be a dragon…”
— the Mabinogion
Highlands of Scotland, April 1296
“My lady! My lady!”
The shrill cry rent the stillness of the remote Highland glen. Startled, scores of ravens took wing, blotting out the sky. Their cacophony echoed the call…my lady, my lady. For a peculiar instant, the world held its breath as the heavens were turned black.
Tamlyn MacShane paused from picking the first violets of spring. Straightening from the stooped-over position, she arched her shoulders to relieve the crick in her back. Loch winds were lifting, sweeping up the steep incline. They swirled about her with ghostly, playful hands, tugging wisps of her honey-colored hair from the simple braid hanging down her back. Whilst the heavy mass had nary a curl, ’twas imbued with a will all its own.
Brushing stray strands from her face, her eyes followed the spiraling path of the noisy blackbirds.
An ill omen, The Kenning whispered to her mind.
A frisson of disquiet snaked up her spine. Her fey gift to sense things, and the strange behavior of the birds, summoned fragments of the lingering nightmare that had awakened her this morn. Vague, just at the edge of her thoughts...something about screaming ravens and a coming storm. She shivered.
“‘Blackbirds fleeing before noontide sun, fate changes before the day be done.’” She repeated the augury in a hushed tone.
When the lad topped the crest of the tòrr, he screamed once more, “My lady! He comes!”
Shaking the somber fit of mind, Tamlyn smiled at the boy tumbling to a stop at her feet. “Och, Connor Og, catch a breath before you turn the shade of these violets.”
“My garron tossed me. Ye needs must come, my lady,” he gasped, “so they can bar the gates.”
“Pray tell, who cometh that we needs must close Glenrogha’s gates? You ken our portcullis remains open to all men of honor.”
“Him...the one heard tell about.” The words were whispered in fear, as if speaking of him would conjure his presence. “Riders...from Dun Lochshane...with word—Kinmarch was put to siege by the English king—the dread Edward Longshanks. Raised the dragon standard, they did. Yer Da...be afeard dead.” Tears streaked down his dusty face.
Hadrian of Kinmarch dead? Nonsense! With the power of The Kenning, she would have felt that. “The laird is no’ dead, paiste. I’d ken it here.” Her fisted hand clenched at the center of her chest.
A frown crossed the lad’s face at her calling him child. After all, he’d see three and ten years, come May. His expression softened. “Mayhap it be so. Ye were touched by the blood of the Sidhe. Still, he comes. His standards were sighted on the road from Lochshane...already near the Sacred Passes—the green dragon on the field of black!”
“The Dragon of Challon―Edward’s fist! He comes?” For an instant laughter bubbled up in her throat. Was this a jest? A dragon coming on St. George’s Day? Her heart jumped as if she had taken a pinch too much foxglove.
Since Longshanks’ quest to control Scotland had begun, all on this side of the Marches feared the legendary Dragon of Challon. Tales of the Dragon’s prowess in Wales brought a cold dread even to hard-bitten warriors. Rumors spread as wildfires through the Highlands this sennight past about the sack of Berwick, tales too ugly for Tamlyn to contemplate.
“Hie, Connor Og, catch your garron. I shall fetch my palfrey. Speed haste to Glenrogha. Do no’ look back.”
Forgetting the basket of harvested violets, Tamlyn rushed to the far side of the knoll where she had hobbled the dapple-grey. Content munching grass, Bansidhe ignored her, as she knelt to unfasten the leather bands around its fetlocks. Pushing her mantle over her shoulders, she gathered the reins and attempted to mount.
Wishing to remain and eat her fill of the spring faerygrass, the horse jerked the lead from her hands. Elders spake few animals could partake of the blades touched by the feet of the Unseelie Court—Trooping Faeries who danced on the high tors by light of the new moon.
“I care no’ if the Wee Ones think you especial. Do not fash me, or speak I shall to the tanner about lining my new mantle with a dapple pelt. You ken, you silly beastie?”
The mare’s head snapped up with the recoil of a whip, its whole body stiffening. Taking advantage, Tamlyn scrambled up on its back whilst the animal’s attention affixed to the distance. The palfrey ignored her heels kicking against its barrel, as it issued a shrill whinny.
A queer rumble came in the distance, deep as thunder from a summer storm, only steady, persistent. The sound sent a shiver up her spine, the eerie noise preternatural—almost with the portent of the Bansidhe’s wail. Once more, dark impressions rose of the nightmare that had broken her slumber at dawn. Dismissing the queer feeling, Tamlyn assumed a storm must be amassing on the other side of the passes. She turned to scrutinize the hills ringing Glen Shane. The morning sky near Dun Kinmarch was strangely grey.
First the ravens, now the coming storm. Coldness streaked with icy fingers through her soul...as if someone of great power had just crossed through the Sacred Passes.
Finally, the horse obeyed the tug on the reins. Tamlyn felt driven to reach Glenrogha. Her mantle flying behind, she leaned forward and encouraged her mount to a swifter pace. Once they had covered the flatland, she glanced over her shoulder. The skyline above Kinmarch was blacker. The Kenning keened warning: no storm filled the heavens with this spreading shadow.
Topping the rise, Tamlyn spotted warriors mounted upon heavy horses of war, pouring into the glen. Normans! The Mists of Warding that had shielded the Sacred Passes of Glen Shane for centuries now failed to hide their vale! How could this be?
A vanguard emerged from the stand of ancient evergreens. Breaking away, several riders traveled at a swift clip. Their monstrous horses chewed up the turf with broad strides. At first, she thought they had not spotted her. Their shouts told otherwise. Slapping the reins against her horse’s neck, Tamlyn chose a path into the grove, where it curved around the tòrr, and then along the steepening cliffs of Loch Shane Mòhr. She used the narrow trail to wind through dense oaks, limes and elms.
The horsemen were compelled to pick their way through the undergrowth of rose briars, honeysuckle vines, and woodbi
ne. Smaller framed, her horse wove like a needle, threading passage through the forest. She breathed easier as the pursuers lagged behind.
Her best hope was to flank the knights, then double back to Glenrogha. By using the old sea caves that connected to the original Pict broch, she could come up within the safety of her fortress. Breaking free of the weald, she urged Bansidhe onward.
Five riders cleared the trees on the edge of Glenrogha’s dead-angle. The fear provoking warhorses churned soft dirt clants high in the air.
Tamlyn’s mantle flew into her face, tangling about her arms and the bridle, costing precious time she could ill-afford. It forced her to abandon plans of using the tidal caves. Had she reached them, she would only reveal their existence to the knights following. That path was now blocked. The only option left was to head for her other sister’s fief of Dun Kinloch.
Her lips pressed thin as she felt the palfrey’s straining exertion. If she could reach the forest of Kinloch, escape would be within grasp. Suddenly, the mare’s hoof hit a depression in the rain-soaked earth, sending Tamlyn and the horse flying heels over head. Impact of slamming into the ground pushed her toward blacking out. Head spinning, she staggered to her feet, and then nearly fell as searing pain shot up her right leg.
Three warriors were upon her before the dizziness lifted. Shaking, she warily faced the enemy whilst they dismounted. With the twisted ankle, she could not run. In cornered animal panic, she tried to shove past them. Laughing, taunting, they propelled her from one to the other—pack dogs tormenting their helpless prey. The fine surcoats were the green and black of the Dragon of Challon, the dragon rampant emblazoned upon their chests.
“Comely wench,” one avowed. He shoved the mail hood off his head.
Tamlyn knew she was tall for a Scots lass, yet she was forced to look up at these Norman warriors. With helms off, their sable hair gleamed, a match to their piercing onyx eyes.
“If all wenches in this heathen land be so winsome, mayhap the move northward offers sport,” one said. “Come, give us a kiss, wench.”
“I’d rather kiss a bloody leper!” Tamlyn spat the words. Never would she allow them to see she tasted fear.
“No lepers here, howbeit, you may lavish kisses upon my pet snake.” The others laughed when the knight lowered his dark brown head to hers.
Tamlyn flinched as the meaning behind the Norman words registered. Widening, her eyes stared in revulsion. She shoved against his covered breastplate, sending him backward against the blood-bay warhorse.
The younger warrior stepped to box her in. He used a soothing voice one would affect to calm an untrained hawk or horse. “No need to fear us, sweetling. We be a damn sight cleaner than your filthy, skirt-clad countrymen.”
Tamlyn swallowed the lump in her throat, The Kenning seeing into their dark thoughts. These vile dogs of Edward Longshanks intended to rape her! Forcing back the mind-numbing dread, she focused on reaching the sgian dubh in her boot. Beginning a Spell of Warding, her lips barely mouthing the ancient words of empowerment, “Adhnadhe anthroxs oothras beytharde dethiale deindhe―” She paused, dread spreading through her as she realized the ancient enchantment of protection summoned the breath of the dragon!
Wrapped up in casting the charm, Tamlyn was caught off guard. The youngest knight seized her about the waist, then spun her around, pushing her back against another man.
Two more mounted warriors cantered up, Edward’s mercenaries who wore the colors of the Plantagenet scarlet and gold. Three faded golden leopards were on their surcoats. One called, “Might knowed Sir Dirk would flush out a bit of quim.”
Tamlyn pushed this knight as she had the other. Solid, immovable, he towered over her. Hard eyes of polished jet roamed over her peasant’s sark.
Placing a hand on either shoulder, Sir Dirk slid them up her throat, a bizarre gesture of threat and sensuality that paralyzed her. “Prove you a surprise. Warned we were that Scots females be sisters to swine, and had blue scales upon their bellies and breasts.”
Her blood vibrated. “Take your filthy hands off me, you Sasunnach tailed dog.”
“These prideful Scots be raised with tongues too free. Once under English rule, we’ll stomp the sass out of them. Let them learn the force of Edward’s Peace,” the second warrior growled, “startin’ with this bitch.”
She tried to push away from the dark knight. Repulsed, Tamlyn watched as his hands splayed over her flesh. An angelic smile curved his hatefully pretty face, as he clutched the bodice in his fists and ripped it down the middle. The thin woolen-baize offered little resistance. Cheeks burning bright, her hands flew up, trying to cover her full breasts.
“Wha’ color are her nipples?” a mercenary growled, rapaciously licking his cracked lips.
Sword-calloused hands took hold of her wrists. Bending them back, the knight compelled Tamlyn to release the grip on the torn sark. He leaned toward her and lowered his mouth to the slope of her pale breast. Her twisting against his hold only elicited an evil grin. Foul darkness possessed this man’s soul.
“Truly, Dirk of Pendegast deserves his name. Finest swordsman of the Black Dragon be he,” one laughed.
The knight nudged the material of the ripped sark with his nose until her left breast was exposed. Leering, he proclaimed, “The colors, Sir Knights—milky white breast tipped by a nipple of dusky sand, crowned with a berry pink. No scale of any shade.”
Seething humiliation and rage, her body arched as his hot lips latched around her areola and sucked painfully hard. A whimper, a wounded animal sound shuddered through her. Tears scalded her eyes. Again, she commenced the Charm of Making, this time to draw within herself, bespell her mind far away where it could not be touched, tainted by the ugliness of their crude brutality.
“Want us to hold her down for ye?” a warrior offered.
The tall knight bore her down to the ground with the weight of his body. His muscular thigh pushed through the split in the long mail hauberk, shoving roughly between her legs. Swallowing bile, Tamlyn nearly strangled on the bitter, hot taste. She was terrified she might vomit, fearful she would drown in it as they raped her.
Her shaking fingers brushed the top of the knife. As Sir Dirk raised up slightly, to fumble with the lacings on his chausses, her trembling hand closed about the hilt.
One man heralded a warning. “Knife!” Too late.
“Get up!” Tamlyn wedged the razor-honed blade against her attacker’s throat, forcing him to rise. “Else I shall split your gullet and watch your blood water the earth.” Pearls of blood beaded from the pressure of the knife.
Another knight came up behind her. His calloused hands wrapped around her wrist. The sudden movement jerked the knife tip to gouge into Sir Dirk’s flesh in a shallow tear along his jaw.
“Leave go, bitch, else I’ll snap your wrist like a pigeon bone,” Sir Geoffrey threatened. He squeezed until the knife fell from her grip.
Sir Dirk’s countenance soured as his hand traced over his jaw, dragging his long fingers through the oozing blood. Coal-black eyes narrowed on her. Reptilian in their fury, not a dram of mercy was in their empty stygian depths. He roughly smeared his blood across her right breast. “Mayhap I shall kill the whore, then swive her.”
He backhanded Tamlyn so hard her ears rang. Blinding pain drove her down on one knee. Blood filled one nostril. More pooled at the back of her throat, tasting coppery. Weak, forced to remain kneeling, her trembling hand pathetically clutched the front of her torn sark. Swallowing fear, Tamlyn tilted her trembling chin up in a display of defiance. She flashed daggers of hatred through unwanted tears, awaiting his next blow. Resigned, she braced herself as he drew back his arm.
“Hold fast!”
A lone rider drove a magnificent black stallion across the dead-angle, bearing down on them, then reined the animal to a halt. The Friesian reared high, so powerful its hooves slashed the air. The warrior dismounted with an inherent grace and the recoiled power of a panther.
Apprehe
nsive, all five knights swung around to face him.
Dropping the other knee, Tamlyn combated flashes before her eyes, her head too heavy to hold up. Hindered by their shifting positions, she saw only glimpses of the sixth man. ’Twas no rush to espy this new knight. No aid or mercy would she expect from one more of their breed. Just another dog from an English king, another man to rape her.
Dread rippled through the group. The immediate posture of the five was that of abject obeisance, evident this warrior held high rank. They parted in deference as a man of medium height strode regally into their center. Though a hand’s width shorter than the others, he was not in the least intimidated by the taller men. His was a raw, elemental power never measured by such menial standards, the likes Tamlyn had never encountered. Hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she stared at him. He moved with élan, belying weight of the metal accoutrements. The armour plates covering his upper arms and thighs, the mail habergeon, mantle and surcoat were black. All black.
He removed the conical helm and pushed back the mail coif. His locks of the same unrelenting shade of pitch were not the severe Norman style of hair-cutting, but long, curling softly about his ears and brushing the metal gorget that covered the back of his neck. Handsome—nay, beautiful—he surely must be born of Selkie blood. Scorching energy discharged from this dark warrior with the sizzle and crackle of lightning. It stirred the air surrounding him.
Tamlyn’s breath caught and held.
He handed the helm to Sir Geoffrey, with no more regard than he would afford a lowly squire. With deft precision, he slowly removed the black leathern gauntlets. He passed them off as well. A flick of the sooty lashes bespoke his biting disdain and temporary dismissal. With an arch of a black brow, he conveyed scorn for the other men.
His keen attention fixed on Tamlyn. Even paces away, the penetrating stare sent her to tremble with foreboding. Heads bowed, the others permitted him through to her without one word uttered. Few men wielded such chilling command. Elegant fingers captured her chin, lifting it, forcing her to meet his stare.
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 1