A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Challon rubbed the pulse-point with his calloused thumb.

  Tamlyn put her hand to his chest as if to push him away. Only, she glanced down to see her palm rested against his heart. Her eyes widened, staring at the hand magically fused to his burning flesh, and the pounding of his blood beneath. Lord Challon was not quite as calm as he pretended. She lifted her gaze to meet his.

  “Fear me, faidhaich? Or are you terrified of your body and its hungers?” he mocked.

  “I do no’ fear you, Julian Challon.” She spoke lies. They both knew it.

  Challon’s eyes traveled slowly over her body, then back to her face. “I never raise hand to things weaker than me. Enjoy I spirited horses, hawks and hounds, and find loathing in anything cowardly. I can accept the same in a lady wife...provided she be smart enough to know when to cry pax. Surrender, Tamlyn. Yield to me. We both bring much to this union.”

  “In crying peace I see naught gained I do not already possess.”

  “You attain the protection of my name and sword. I hold great wealth in the care of the Templars. I shall spend this coin to improve Glenrogha, to defend it. I shall give you fine sons. Ah, Tamlyn, work your mind. If I had not taken Glenrogha, another warlord would have come in my place. Edward will not stop until all of Scotland be under his fist. Saw you the mettle of his mercenaries. More and more, Edward permits his nobles to pay scutage so he can keep his armies in the field longer. Instead of leading a host of vassals, they are little more than a pack of rabid animals. They do as they are told―anything they are told―as long as they receive food and coin. As much as you abhor my taking of your precious fortress, stop and consider. You were nearly raped. I prevented that. That be just a taste of what happens when Longshanks unleashes his dogs to sack a town or holding. I shall stand between you and the king, shield you and all in this valley. In time, you may even view this union as a blessing. Anns a cheann thall.” In the long run.

  “You wish for a lady wife who will never love you?”

  Challon shrugged, releasing her as he slid off the bed. “Never did I voice want about wishing love. A word overused by silly bards and green fools. You shall rule as lady of my holdings, warm my bed and breed me strong sons. What need have I for foolish words with little value? Together, we can build a future in which we both can find honor―if you summon reason instead of bootless Scots pride.”

  He shook his head in disgust, clearly wearied with trying to make her see his position. With quick movements, he finished dressing. “We shall see in the long run.” With that pronouncement, he walked to the door, not looking back.

  “My lord. My sisters...what have you done with them?”

  “I shall send them with my brother Guillaume to Lochshane. Until that time, they remain in Lady Tower.”

  “Is it your intent I remain here prisoner? Dawnbreak be upon us. Many chores require my attention below,” she called after him.

  He paused, his hand on the door. Turning halfway toward her, he said, “You shall remain here until I return and I take you belowstairs. I want you dressed in a manner befitting the countess of Glenrogha, and not like some serving wench. In the Great Hall and before all, you shall happily proclaim your acceptance of me as earl here and our betrothal.”

  “And if I do not obey the mighty Dragon?”

  His eyes were level and cold. “Then, your men in the oubliette starve until you see reason.”

  “’Tis vile! To starve prisoners—”

  “Ah, but they shan’t face that grim fate unless you prove obstinate. We can do this in peace, or we can turn our bedchamber into a battleground. Cipher hard, faidhaich, before my return.”

  He slammed the door with a resounding finality.

  Chapter Ten

  Cha tig piseach air duine a bheir cait thar allt.

  (He who takes a cat across a stream shall have no luck.)

  — Auld Scottish Adage

  Guillaume smiled, satisfied over the fine meal, a pleasant rest in a soft bed, and prospects of the future. “I love you, Julian, and willingly wouldst follow you into the very jaws of Hell. But I am weary, a warrior too long, and more than ready to settle down to fireside and a wife. A quandary you foster upon us humble servants with this choice. Both women are so hard upon the eyes.”

  The jesting comments addressed the question Julian asked concerning the fate of the remaining daughters of The Shane: which one did they want? “Both honours are rich in lands and resources, equal value I adjudge,” Julian assessed. “Seems to leave the ladies as the deciding factors.”

  “’Tis no rush, Julian. Mayhap bitten you were by the peculiar need to lay claim to Glenrogha―even before you sighted the fortress or its lady. Neither Guillaume nor I sally forth under such an enchantment.” Destain smiled, clearly seeing no need to determine the issue in haste.

  At the mention of enchantment, Julian flinched inwardly. All morn he had pushed aside Tamlyn’s strange utterance, but Destain’s words summoned forth the odd memory and the persistent unease behind it.

  “No witchery holds sway over me,” he snapped. Too harsh to sound casual.

  “A mere jest, Brother. Still, even you must admit it passing odd how you fixed your sight on this holding without prior knowledge of it or the maid. You are a man of incisive judgment, weighing all options. Yet, from first breath after Edward granted the charter, you were determined to claim this fief, as if you twigged Glenrogha was fated to be yours.” Failing to notice how his musings soured Julian’s mood, he raised his chalice. “What say you, when I return from taking Dun Kinloch, Guillaume and I shall joust for the hands of the fair demoiselles since neither of us walks under bespellment?”

  “Only knaves and lackwits joust with you. Last time I proved dimwitted enough to accept a challenge you cut the girth on my saddle,” Guillaume teased, slapping Destain on the back as they rose. “Come, Julian and I shall bid your fair face away to Kinloch before one of these witchy sisters casts evil-eye upon you.”

  ♦◊♦

  Julian stood with Guillaume, observing Destain leading the knights away, followed by the hobelars, archers, soldiery of foot, and lastly the loaned mercenaries from Edward—a grim hard-bitten bunch with hungry eyes and empty souls. It would be his extreme pleasure to send them running back to the king at first opportunity. Julian knew his brother shared his apprehension over Destain striking off alone to take Kinloch.

  Still, unspoken thoughts weighed upon their minds. Julian felt the sadness hovering between them, as if a ghostly presence lingered at their shoulders.

  Eyes running over the high hills ringing Glen Shane, Guillaume spoke. “’Tis lamentable Christian is not here. He would have liked these purple Highlands. Kinmarch lands could have been his, he could have rebuilt the castle to guard the entrance to the passes.”

  Julian stared at the ground, swallowing the pain constricting his throat. “Irony, since he deserved to be here whilst I, his murdering brother―?”

  “Silence! I shall hear no such words from you,” Guillaume barked. Julian turned away, only to have his brother grab his upper arm to restrain him. “Christian found God’s Peace. ’Tis shame you cannot do same. Mayhap speaking of him, his passing, finally will put these misreckonings into the grave with him.”

  “Leave be,” Julian snarled, jerking against Guillaume’s hand.

  “Never wouldst Christian see you carry this burden of guilt. He loved you. You loved him. Destain, Darian or I would have made the same choice had we been there. Bloody Hell, Julian, ’tis a sin to never speak his name. To do so keeps him alive in our hearts. His spirit follows us in all we do. His gentle soul keeps watch over us.”

  “So strange―even more since entering this heathen glen―I feel him. I catch myself turning to ask his thoughts on our new lands.” Julian stared skyward at the murder of ravens taking wing, flushed by the troop’s departure. As if he sought their answers or mercy. “Christian always protected my back. The one instance he needed me I was not there.”

  �
�Bigod, Julian, the wounds of his death fester your soul. ’Tis time to find a means of lancing this poison. Grant yourself permission to heal. Has it not occurred to you how driven you were to claim Glenrogha, from the first? Never did you consider the other holdings. ’Twas always Glenrogha. A near obsession. Mayhap ’tis why you feel him so strongly in this valley. His hand guided you here where The Fates offer you the chance for the peace you so desperately seek. Saints’ bones, you cannot continue to let our brother’s death and the nightmare of Berwick rot your soul. If not for your own sake, do it for Destain, Dare and me.”

  Closing his eyes, Julian squeezed the lids tight. “I be aware...my mind bends inward on itself. These black distempers grow more uncontrollable, as do pains accompanying them. I pray to discover some semblance of solace here in these mist-shrouded hills.”

  Guillaume’s eyes roved slowly over the blue-purple ring of high peaks, seeming to embrace and protect the whole of Glen Shane. He listened to the screeching of the ravens. “Not one given to imaginings, I must agree―there’s something...different about this dale. A queer moody place that bespeaks of witchery. These Scots, even their females, possess a stubborn streak methinks our king woefully underestimates. Think you shall find harmony and healing in this pagan land with a lass who shall fight you every step of the way in all you hope to achieve?”

  “Something...draws me to this place. I feel...I belong.” He shrugged, embarrassed to say these words, fearful his brother would think him mad. “As for being content—well, I only know I cannot go on as I have and survive. This may be my best, my only chance to salvage something of myself.”

  “Then, make haste, take the Lady Tamlyn to wife, see her quicken with your seed, and name your son Christian.”

  Julian nodded. “Can you forgive me for losing our holdings?”

  “Torqmond you won by Edward’s favor. Challon was always yours by birth—never in part Destain’s, Dare’s or mine.” He raised his hand to stay his brother’s argument, knowing it well. “Never could it belong to your father’s bastards, though you did everything in your power to make the world believe otherwise. Destain and I were satisfied being your bannerets. Darian...well, I am not sure anything satisfies that one. He takes too many risks. It was not necessary to offer Destain and me Lochshane and Kinloch. I know it cost dear coinage to procure papal dispensation for our marriages.”

  “’Twas not so costly, considering Edward’s greed. The king finally has revenge upon the Sisters MacShane for scorning his matchmaking efforts this decade past. I wish each of you to be lord of your own fortress and lands.”

  Guillaume asked, “And what of Darian?”

  “You have the right of it. Dare takes too many chances.” He picked up a stick from the ground and tossed it, trying to vent some of his emotions. “I shall handle him when and if Edward releases him from service. I think he keeps Darian close.”

  “Hostage? The king seems to favor him, nearly as fond of him as he is of Robert Bruce.”

  “There is both good and bad in that regard. He looks Edward in the eyes and that amuses the king. Darian many times is lacking in caution. He be too genuine. Not a good trait when dealing with our king. They do not call Edward the leopard for naught. He can change his spots in a heartbeat. Then, Dare’s recklessness could see him on the wrong side of Edward’s temper.”

  “That increases your need to bring these holdings under your hand.”

  Julian gave him a dark glance and nodded. “Saints’ blood, for far too long we have lived, slept, and even eaten warfare. Here, I sense there is a promise of something better for the war-weary Dragons of Challon. I am eager to see heather in bloom. My secret hope is to breed horses, the best stallions any knight could crave to possess. Most of all, I want sons. I wish to spank them, kiss them, tickle them silly, tell them stories of their uncle Christian. I so need...”

  Muscles clenched, knotting in the coil of black empty hunger. Julian feared the cracks in his sanity widened with every breath. Finite tremors racked his body as he fought against them with his warrior’s will, this dark malaise tearing him apart.

  Guillaume stood, frustrated at his inability to help his brother. “Cry, by damn! Cry for him! Cry for yourself! You carried this foul burden too long. Christian would never want you hurting for him in this manner.”

  Julian drew himself up, reining in control over the raw, festering despondency. “Allow time. As we build lives here you shall see me heal.” He spoke the words for Guillaume’s comfort, not with any real belief, though mayhap with a spark of hope. “Come, let us inspect these Pict vitrified walls. See if they are as ugly up close as they were from afar. Then, I think it best if you escort the ladies Raven and Rowanne to Lochshane until matters are settled at Kinloch.”

  ♦◊♦

  Tamlyn stirred in her dark sleep, disturbed by the noise.

  dulump...dulump... dulump...

  Pounding hooves sounded in the fog. So thick, the haar swirled around Tamlyn to where she could not see anything. Turning full circle, she sought her way, but the heavy mist shrouded all.

  dulump...dulump... dulump...

  Suddenly, a black steed broke free of the fog, the bridle jingling as it tossed its thick mane, then snorted. This time the rider was without helm, not covering the beautiful face of Lord Challon. He repeated the action of offering her a rose, and the instant she touched his ring, lightning flashed and she was spirited away.

  As before, she was carried to the horrible town of death. The smoke and stench of burning flesh nearly made her gag. Choking, she fled, running down the narrow wynds and twisting vennels. She broke from the avenue into an open area. Feeling exposed, she pulled up.

  Ravens screamed as she saw Lord Challon on his knees beside the public water well. His body shuddered from dry heaves, then the jerks were from tears. When she approached he looked up, startled, confused. As she neared the well, he stepped before her, blocking her view, but not before she saw that it was stuffed full with the bodies of women. He pulled her into his arms, his hand pressed her head to his shoulder, holding her tightly so she could not see the hideous sight.

  Lightning cracked. Blinking, she adjusted to abruptly being on open moorland. By the lay of the landscape, she assumed she was not in Scotland. A man knelt beside the prostrate form of another. Others hovered nearby, whispering. Curious, her steps carried her closer, and at the touch of her hand the soldiers moved aside.

  The Earl Challon was on his knees and held a body. She blanched as she saw that he embraced a younger man. So very like him. Tamlyn knelt on the other side of the corpse, tears of empathy flooding her. Her shaking hand reached out and brushed the curls off the forehead of the young man cradled in the curve of Challon’s arm. The Kenning told her the boy had found peace. The Sidhe now encircled the loving soul, as they prepared to carry it on the final journey to Annwn, the Otherworld.

  Intense sorrow pressed inward on her mind and heart. This lad, so beautiful, was too young to die. She looked up into Challon’s face, madness of grief shining clear in the dark green eyes. Aching for him, she placed her hand to the side of his face, wishing desperately to have some sway to ease his crippling pain.

  “His last thought was worry for you, my lord. He wanted to thank you for being brave and doing what you must to spare him,” she offered in solace.

  He blinked in shock. For an instant hatred clearly roared through him at her daring to speak the young man’s thoughts. Then he reached with a bloodstained hand and pressed hers tightly against his cheek, as if her touch could soothe the anguish.

  The ravens’ screams grew deafening as they took to the sky, turning it black. Challon was gone. As were the body of his brother, and the men hovering around. She stood alone in the field, hearing the blackbirds cry.

  Tamlyn ran.

  Suddenly, she was back in Glen Shane. Her steps carried her through the thickening ferns of the Sacred Grove of Fàinne na Bòidean―Ring of the Oaths. The standing stone circle loomed on the fa
r tòrr, visible from any point in the small protective wood. Here the earth was dark and fertile, cool and soft beneath her bare feet. She always felt restored by the hallowed place of the Auld Race. Toward the far end of the enchanted ring of apple trees was a small pool at the base of a narrow waterfall.

  The rushing sound whispered promises of soothing, luring Tamlyn with its sweet, healing troth. If she could reach there and dive below the crystalline depths, she knew the peace she sought would be hers.

  Pausing at the edge of the water, she slid her soft woven chainse over her head. She draped the diaphanous under-tunic on the shoulder-high broadleaf fern.

  In reverence, she knelt by the rippling waters, arms opened and extended, whispering dark words of the singsong Charm of Blessing, offering thanks to Annis, Lady of the Pool.

  With the spell cast, Tamlyn stepped into the water, and sighed as the coolness slid over her hot skin. The pool was not deep, scarcely over her shoulders at most points, even under the base of the falls.

  Floating to the falls, she stood under the pounding spray to allow the water to soak her long hair. Her breasts tightened in response to the cold until they stung, almost painfully from retracting. A shiver crawled over her body with the sensual pleasure of a ghostly lover’s caress, awakening an aching hunger.

  A snorting from a horse broke the stillness. The sound drawing nearer within the swirling, thickening fog, alerting her she was no longer alone in the sacred circle. Bridle fittings jingled with the tinkling of faery bells. Rare. A horse’s fey sense usually prevented their entering into the ensorcelled forest.

  A black stallion materialized from within the shifting mists, ridden by a knight in black mail. You know him, her mind spoke the hushed warning. A great lord.