A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  As she treaded water, her eyes searched all about her. She expected to see more knights in his wake. Only the sound of unseen ravens calling from the fog followed the warrior. The horse danced closer, tossing the heavy mane in silken ripples, the head flung in restless, barely contained energy.

  Fear finally shattering her lethargy, she pushed through the water in hopes of reaching the bank where her clothes were. As she neared the edge, she judged the horse and rider would intercept her. Turning in panic, she swam back to the opposite side.

  The man never took his warlock eyes off her. With a nudge of a golden spur, the knight sent the majestic beast to rear, the hooves slashing high in the air. The horse landed, dancing and sidestepping to keep measure with her progress to the far side. Again, it arrived there just ahead of her.

  Frantic, Tamlyn spun once more, going back toward her clothing, merely to have the knight steer the black warhorse to her destination. She breathed in labored pants, barely able to gasp enough air, forcing her to stop in the middle of the pond and admit defeat. The horse and man could play this game until dark and never grow winded.

  The warrior all in black dismounted, holding the lead rein in his right hand. Green eyes flicked over her naked form, unhidden in the clear waters. Cool insolence, touched with a trace of sangfroid, was all she read there.

  “Never run from me,” he commanded.

  Dropping the rein, he marched into the water, ignoring clothes, mail habergeon and mantle. His long strides brought him to stand waist deep in the pool before her. His eyes ignited with a demon’s glow. Knowing he could see into the crystalline liquid, she wrapped her arms about her to shield her breasts from his lust.

  His left hand reached out and pulled her arm away, hauling her toward him as he moved forward. For several breaths, he just stared at her body, swirling emotions blazing in his commanding eyes.

  The long fingers slid up her arm to her shoulder, as he grabbed the back of her neck, preventing any attempt to resist. With equal determination, Tamlyn tugged against the hold, but he followed. He permitted her small retreat until she felt the falls hitting her back.

  “Tha sibh liom.” You are mine, his husky declaration was uttered close to her face.

  Dragon green eyes claimed her soul as his head lowered, his hot mouth, opening on hers. ’Twas not a gentle kiss, but one of branding. Giving no quarter, he would only accept her complete surrender. He tasted wild, as intoxicating as summer mead.

  Her heart thundered with fear, pounded with wanting, a longing the likes she never knew could exist.

  Filled with rebellion, and trying to resist, she held back for an instant. Trying to protect herself. Soon her arms slid around his neck, her body softly arching to his. Her lips molded under his with all the passions he evoked. Her trembling hand fisted, weaving in the silky blue-black curls...and holding on for dear life.

  His hard mouth slashed across her willing one, taking her lips. Spellbound, she followed his every lead. She wanted to learn all the dark forbidden secrets of this rough magic. Willing to sell her soul to have him.

  Tamlyn hungrily pressed against his solid chest. The wet chain mail was cold to her bare throbbing breasts. She little cared, disappointed it was mail and not his flesh.

  As if he fathomed her urgency, his left hand slid down her spine, over the soft curves of her derrière, lifting her, fitting their bodies hip-to-hip. It was still not enough for Tamlyn. Not enough for him. The waterfalls sheeted over them, anointing their driving passion with the blessing from the goddess Annis.

  The flowing water shifted, changing, as the crystalline streams of the falls reformed into yellow-orange flames that engulfed them in a sea of fire. Never breaking the kiss, he seemed unaware of this alarming transmutation. She was panicky. The wall of sizzling heat consumed, embraced them.

  Alarm mounted until she wanted to scream. She must scream. She had to scream or die! Yet, breaking the bond with this dark warrior would also feel like dying.

  Suddenly, an ear-splitting clamor arose about them.

  ’Twas not Tamlyn who screamed, but a thousand hard cries of frantic ravens taking wing and filling the sky until it was black.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,

  catch a glimpse of days that are over...”

  — Thomas Moore

  Julian dismounted, and then tethered the lead rein on Pagan to the blooming bush. Heavy with fragrant white flowers, the older petals fluttered to the ground, so thick it resembled snowfall. He stared at them trying to summon up some fey remembrance...about petals blanketing the earth and turning the ground white. Shards of a dream last night?

  He glanced up at the ancient stone kirk—the one before which he would proclaim his wedding troth—a queer, moody unease striking him. Whilst obviously a church, the style held dimensions of paganism about it. Staring up at the small figure carved in the stone at the peak of the arched entrance, his eyes batted thrice in surprise. He lifted his palm against the harsh glare of the noontide sun, trying to see clearer.

  “’Tis called a shelia-na-gig, Lord Challon.” The virile, handsome man spoke from the shadowed doorway. As he stepped from the dimness, the dark auburn hair rippled in the slight breeze, just brushing his shoulders. “A symbol of fertility, you might say.”

  Julian blinked his eyelids to rid the lingering blue halo of the glare from his vision. He could have sworn no one was there just a heartbeat before the man spoke. “The figure be female?”

  “’I wouldst think the answer obvious,” he replied, an indulgent smile upon his much too sensual mouth. He held out his hand to shake. “Sir Malcolm Ogilvie. This kirk be mine, my lord.”

  This was the Culdee? It seemed peculiar to Julian, a priest being so...hedonic, but then, mayhap not so unusual when he contemplated the church. The two seemed a match.

  “And it be...ah...doing what methinks?”

  Malcolm chuckled, as if he found Julian’s reaction humorous—expected but still amusing. “Aye, again, my lord.”

  “Blasphemy!” hissed Julian. He was shocked such a filthy thing would adorn a church. He felt a blush tinge his cheeks, causing him to wonder when was the last time he had been embarrassed? “’Tis obscene.”

  “To some. Others might view it as a veneration of the female power, and thus life itself. Oh, aye, a few shall deem it offensive—outlanders—but these Highlands hold different beliefs. Throughout these Isles, there be wells consecrated to St. Anne, mother of the Holy Virgin. ’Tis kenned these same wells in ancient times were dedicated to the Celts’ goddess, Annis. A reputed child-eater, she granted wishes at her wells on the night of the new moon—for the price of a small child. Puts the term wishing well into a different light, eh? Likely, a Christian slant. By the Auld Ways, the child was spirited off to be raised as one of the Sidhe and not devoured. Christianity, sadly, tends to rule their flock with a heavy hand and through fear.”

  Baffled, Julian followed the man into the dark, cool church. Both knelt and genuflected.

  “Kirks ofttimes were constructed within old henges or stone rings. Not sure if that was to lure or prevent heathen beliefs. Blatant placement of the pesky shelia-na-gigs states a case Christianity hedged its stance. See, here be another of the lusty female showing her wares. Many churches throughout these Isles, even convents, have them. Over the arch of the altar, you see the face of a man surrounded by ivy and oak leaves?” he pointed out. “That be Jack-in-the-Green, Lord of the Forest, oft called the Green Man, by some. Another pagan deity carved in many Christian churches. Jack be quite a lusty fellow himself—ravisher of fair maids on Beltaine, Midsummer Eve and Lughnasadh. Most likely fathers of the merry-be-gots were the local lads, but then what woman wouldst rather not carry the bairn of a god than a pitted-faced serf?”

  Julian studied the second shelia-na-gig, and then moved to the figure of the man peering through clusters of leaves. “Are pagan festivals still kept here?”

  “We offer w
ell-comes to spring, summer solstice, autumn and yuletide—all rites closely tied to the harvest. Then, there is Michaelmas Eve...”

  Julian blinked in surprised. “I was born on that day.”

  The priest raised his light brown brows in dawning assessment. He smiled. “How odd.”

  “Odd?”

  “Commonality, my lord. Random things that seem unconnected, but are part of a grander scheme. Your standard is the Dragon of Challon. Our St. Michael, Prince of Light, fought the battle to tame the Silver Dragon of Alba. Unlike your Patron Saint of Knights, St. George— Michael made peace with the great beastie and set it to live in the loch of Ness.” He studied the earl for several long breaths before taking up the previous thread of conversation. “Aside from those celebrations, we hold four fire festivals. Oiche Fheil Bhrighid―Festival of Brighid—Beltaine, Lughnasadh and Samhaine.”

  Julian was not sure how to accept the information. “Does the church not frown upon these celebrations?”

  “I always thought the church chose the term flock with an eye on true meaning. Sheep are such stupid creatures. If the leader tumbles off the edge of a cliff in a snowstorm, the whole flock follows blindly. You see by the ornamental carvings on the ends of the devotionals that these lands were, and are in some part still, matriarchal. In pockets cut off from the rest of Scotland, like Glen Shane, old ways die hard. Females of the Picts were held in high regard. Power flowed through them. They held lands, ruled on councils, chose their own husbands—more than one in some cases—severed marriage bonds at will, and even fought in battle alongside their men. When the battle ended, the women went about with small hand sickles castrating their prisoners.”

  “What lunacy!” Julian’s black brows lifted in shock at the notion.

  The priest chuckled at the earl’s expression. “A man’s worst nightmare, eh?”

  In an alcove to the left side, Julian knelt on one knee to scrutinize the beautifully carved reliefs on the end caps of the two black-oak pews—vignettes of the past lives of these Highlanders. One actually showed a woman beating a man with a small flay. The other depicted a man on his knees in obeisance before a crowned woman on a throne.

  Julian’s mouth twisted in astonishment when he realized the woman bore a strong likeness to Tamlyn. He brushed his finger to the figure, almost as if a touchstone.

  “I suppose I should not find these pagan leanings troublesome. Nonetheless, I do. Just as I have dissonance with a priest who is wed, owns lands, and said to father sons.” Julian eyed him pointedly.

  “‘Increase and multiply, replenish the earth’―let no man accuse me of shirking my duty.” Malcolm laughed. “I fear my days as priest be numbered, my lord. Edward Plantagenet and the Roman Pope wish the Culdees made redundant, viewing us as abettors of heretics and rebel-makers. We teach services in our native tongue, believe in the clans’ right to rule the lands before a king, and respect ancient traditions. Few of the Auld Celtic Church be left.”

  Julian nodded. “He shall use the rebellion as an excuse to end your control.”

  “My council to you Lord Challon—allow time. Come to ken us, then you may learn to tolerate, if not understand the people of your new honours. I ken your coming shall alter things. Only, change be more lasting when ’tis gradual. A gentle tolerance of the Auld Faith shall make your acceptance here easier. Proof of that be these shelia-na-gigs in this House of God.”

  Removing the small leather pouch at his belt, Julian tossed the silver coins to the Culdee. “For your flock and their needs, Sir Priest.”

  “Prayers shall be offered for your soul, Lord Dragon. The needy be with us always.”

  Pitching the man a second pouch, heavier with coins, Julian knew resistance would come when he broached his next matter. “The Crying Siller, I believe you call it. I wish banns called, starting this Sabbath for Tamlyn to be taken by me as my lady wife.”

  The warmth in the golden-brown eyes dimmed. “Has our Tamlyn spake consent to this union? The Siller be a pledge, plighted by both man and woman to the kirk, that the wedding will take place. You understand you forfeit the Siller if the wedding does not occur?”

  “It shall happen.” Julian anticipated opposition, his opinion reinforced whilst hearing the priest’s litany of female rights under Auld Pict Laws. “She shall see the pressing clarity of her position.”

  “And that being, Lord Challon?” the priest challenged.

  “The marriage be in her best interest, interest of all in this glen as well, and likely shall have bearing on the fate of her lord father. Edward means to see this done. There will be no changing it. Like it or not, Sir Priest, I stand as the best hope for your clan staying free of the coming ugliness. You do not want to see done to Glen Shane what happened in Berwick.”

  The man nodded resignation. “I shall cry banns this Sun’s Day. In the Celtic Church we honor the sanctity of a woman’s rights, most especial where marriage vows are concerned. Bear in mind, my lord, a Culdee cannot perform Rites of Bonding if she refuses.”

  “Then, Sir Priest, I needs must endeavor to win her consent.”

  Julian stepped out into the brilliant sun, and in that same instant a flock of ravens took wing, heading toward the highest tòrr. Their screams were near deafening. “Do those damnable birds always flock so thickly near the passes?

  “They be part of a Spell of Warding. For as long as anyone can remember, the passes of Glen Shane have hidden this valley from the rest of Scotland. ’Tis why you likely find growing acceptance here. Our folk whisper the ravens permitted you to enter because you were destined to come to us. As long as you treat our Tamlyn with respect and honor that shall continue.”

  Even in the warm sun, Julian felt a chill crawl up his spine. The words were meant as advice, yet he heard the clear thread of a threat woven within them. Untying the lead to Pagan, Julian nodded farewell to the striking priest.

  Swinging into the saddle, he turned his destrier from the ancient stone kirk. His eyes were pulled back to the queer female symbol adorning the arch, troubled in reconciling himself to the creature’s presence on the House of God, despite all the Culdee had imparted.

  A strong gust of wind swirled around him, picking up the fallen petals and nearly showering him with their sweet scent, as once more he felt the fey sense of coming home.

  Of being where he belonged.

  ♦◊♦

  Jerking up, Tamlyn took several breaths before she recalled that she was in the lord’s chambers.

  Having grown tired waiting for Challon’s return, she had fallen asleep. The dreams had come again. Stronger, more detailed. More arousing.

  The door opened and Auld Bessa, their healer, came in. “I fetched yer supper, lass. Sit up and eat.”

  “My head aches, Bessa.” She frowned as the pain increased in her skull.

  “Ye dream...dark dreams. Ravens carry messages from Annwn, third level of the Otherworld. Messages for those wise enough to understand. Yer soul kens him, eh?”

  Tamlyn hated that Bessa could tell her thoughts so true. Perversely, she shrugged and feigned indifference. “Him? I ken no’ who you mean.”

  A cat-after-cream smile touched Bessa’s lips, her voice a soft melodic whisper. “Him. He be a pretty one, eh? ’Tis time, Tamlyn, to speak of the coming of this dark lord. Auguries about his arrival. This Norman warlord be worthy of pause and reflection.”

  “Och, Bessa, he vexes my mind,” she complained.

  “But no’ yer body?” Bessa clucked her tongue. “Through the long days of my life I hath seen the faces of many warriors. Looked into their hearts. This man of Challon possesses the courage and fire of a knight of the Auld Code. Mark this: his coming be the will of the Auld Ones.”

  “The Kenning whispers this to you?”

  “Evelynour has seen visions...for several moons’ passings. Dressed all in the color of ravens, even mail and amour plate, he comes in fog, riding a black stallion of war. He holds out an offering...”

  Tamlyn gas
ped. “A white rose...”

  “Aye, blood from his hand spills onto the bloom, turning the color from white to red, then red to black. Ravens scream unseen in the fog, bespeaking of death and a great coming. His coming. Only you have power of the craft to exorcise his bloodstained soul. Our Evelynour prophesied his coming by the balefire on Samhaine a year past. Blood of the Sidhe pulses within his veins—their chosen one—though he kens this no’. Yer destiny, for better or worse, travels the same path as his. This you canno’ escape, lass.”

  Tamlyn dropped the chunk of cheese to the plate, suddenly not hungry. She trembled, hearing the foretellings of Evelynour, one of the most powerful taibhsear—seer—in Clan Ogilvie.

  Bessa mixed a potion and handed it to her. “Here, sweet lass, this shall ease the pain in yer head.”

  She took the goblet, and glared at the dark mixture. None of Bessa’s tansies tasted good. Hesitating, she admitted, “The dreams visits me. Only, how can I no’ stand against the man who destroyed Kinmarch and made prisoner of my lord father? He now lays claim to the holdings of both clans. Worse, he seeks to force me to a marriage bed, without as much as a by your leave. And what of my sisters? Challon says his bastard brothers shall take them as wives.”

  “Yer sisters needs must fight their own battles, as will the laird. Yer resistance canno’ smooth their paths. Balliol shall never unite Alba. No’ whilst the Competitor’s grandson—the Earl Carrick—lives. Of this I warned yer lord father, afore he rushed off to the call of Balliol’s standard. The great seer—True Thomas—made rhymes foretelling such. Was he no’ right about the demise of our King Alexander? He stood before all and prophesied Alexander’s death and how Scotland would be torn asunder.”

  Allowing Bessa’s words to wash over her, Tamlyn downed the thick brew as quickly as she could. She made a sour face.

  “’Tis horrid!” Feeling the effects, Tamlyn had to concentrate on Bessa’s words as the potion sped through her. “Carrick be younger than I, and nearly as Norman as the Dragon. Edward’s Lordling, Highlanders call Robbie Bruce. He was raised at the English’s knee. Some say Longshanks loves him more than his own son.”