Julian Challon stood out amongst the men. This power, this force within him drew her.
As if sensing her eyes were upon him, he rotated and looked to the top of the tower. Locating her solitary form, he stared up at her for several heartbeats. Their eyes locked, as dizziness spun through her. He inclined his head faintly in recognition, and then turned back, focusing his attention to the fore of the curtain.
On alert, all men tautly waited as riders emerged from the shelter of the oaks and approached the fortress. The riders on horseback appeared hard-pressed, as if straight from combat. She grasped Challon feared these might be Scots fleeing the battle at Dunbar, desperate to evade pursuit from the Earl Warenne. In truth, this would be a test for the force at Glenrogha. They would have to choose to obey the Black Dragon when it meant they held the gates against their countrymen.
Tamlyn’s eyes tracked the horsemen crossing the dead angle. English. About two score. Even from this distance, she saw many were injured.
She shivered. ’Twas the second time in a sennight the passes had revealed themselves to outcomers. Tamlyn had no idea what that bode. Mayhap, they were like a woman―once breached she no longer be a virgin. She almost chuckled at the image, and yet, it did little to push the disquiet away from her mind. The passes of Glen Shane had always shielded them before. Why was the ancient spell no longer a veil for the valley?
The cavalry pulled up when they saw the gates barred, halting at the edge of arrow range. Both men and animals labored for breath. One armored knight, mounted upon a dapple-grey destrier, continued alone to the curtain.
“Open the gates in the king’s name!” he shouted.
Challon stepped to the edge of the battlement, looking down from the crenel to the solitary horseman. “And what king be that? Plantagenet or Balliol?”
“Hail, Lord Dragon, has it been so long you fail to recognize your kinsman?” the other man laughed, and removed his helm to reveal his face.
A face obviously of the line of Challon.
The earl flicked his first two fingers to the side, a command for the gates to open. The faint gesture set off a flurry of activity. He headed down the steps to greet the newcomers, as the bailey filled with mounts lathered in sweat. The riders appeared in worse shape. Arrows protruded from the shoulders of three men and another had two in his thigh. Several more appeared to have slash wounds across the front of their surcoats from a sword.
Since wounds required tending, Tamlyn rushed back into the tower proper. Barely reaching the ground level, she called out for Janet and Roselynne to set the pages to help the servants boil water and fetch the basket of bandages from the stillroom. Pausing by the kitchen, she issued orders for cook to move up the noontide meal, as these men would need food and drink. Not once did she stop to consider they were English. They were just men needing succor. The whole fortress was astir.
She returned to the front of the tower in time to see the Dragon embrace the leader. She blinked thrice. It was startling how much this knight resembled Challon. He stood a shade taller, mayhap a bit longer through the trunk of the body. Even up close, the two might be mistaken for twins, though Tamlyn had no trouble telling them apart. This man did not provoke that frisson of alarm as she drew nearer. The Kenning remained silent within her.
“What happened, Damian? Are you all right?” Challon stepped back, running his worried eyes over his kinsman to assess his state.
The other tucked his helm in the curve of his arm. “Hell happened, Julian. And yes, I be fine, though I fear half my men did not fare so well. They be sorely in need of a healer afore the arrows poison their blood.”
The injured men were aided to dismount and helped inside. Rushing ahead, Tamlyn hurriedly instructed that pallets be put down for them. The ones with arrows imbedded were weakened from blood loss, and if not removed immediately, they would die as wound-poisoning spread through their bodies. No amount of herbs or craft would turn the tide. She was a good healer, learning from the Three Wise Ones of the Wood. Even so, she had never dealt with this sort of damage, nor with so many needing help at once. Relief flooded her to see Auld Bessa already standing in the Great Hall, waiting.
♦◊♦
Julian’s eyes kept returning to Tamlyn whilst she settled Damian’s cadre. She moved so graceful, confident in handling her workers, and keeping them moving with purpose and speed. No word of plaint these men were English, she simply did what was necessary. He could not help but feel pride in this woman who would soon be his wife.
“After learning I am dispatched to take up the honours of Lyonglen, Warenne charged me to pursue the Scots fleeing Dunbar.” Damian St. Giles set his helm down on the trestle table, and removed his dark grey mantle from about his shoulders. Exhausted, he dropped it on the bench.
“Edward invests you with your grandsire’s title?” Julian asked in surprise.
His eyes clouding, Damian nodded. “Tides reach the king that Lyonglen grows frail, his health wanes. Thus, Edward is desirous for a staunchly loyal man put in his stead, not one nearly four score in age. Since the borders touch Glen Shane, he ciphers that you and I shall anchor the passage southward against the Highlanders. He released me and my troops after Dunbar and sent us north. Warenne deemed since we traveled this way, my knights could press the remains of clans that rallied to the Comyn standard. He spake ’twas killing two Scots birds with one English stone toss.”
“What happened? You were attacked?”
“Aye. On a field of battle, an English host has a clear and decisive advantage. At Spottsmuir this was proven. We were outnumbered four-to-one, yet with controlled thrusts and a countercharge, the untrained Scots ranks broke and fled. In these heathen hills...” He shook his head sideways. “No matter the numbers, in stealth combat the Scots always will hold the high ground. They know every league of the terrain, and could travel through it blindfolded and in the darkest night. ’Twas a trap. They caught us coming through a howe. Waiting, they lined both sides of the steep hills. Worse, they were armed with English crossbows, Julian. They meant to kill, not defend.”
“Who do they serve? What pennon?”
“No banners I could see. A ragged looking lot. They pinned us. A rear guard was coming up fast. I feared all was lost. Only, a heavy fog rolled down from the beanntan, so thick you could not see. We were able to slip away before their mounted riders could move in to finish the black deed. Glenrogha was closer than Lyonglen, so we came for your safety. In the damnable haar, I was scared we would not find the final pass into Glen Shane. No matter how hard we searched, we could not locate the entrance. The fog was so thick, ’twas unnatural. Then suddenly, as quickly as it had come, the mists parted revealing that my horse stood at the mouth of high cliffs.”
Julian suppressed a smile. “I be familiar with the fog and the passes. Did the ravens greet you?”
Damian accepted the goblet of wine from the serving girl, and sat down in a large chair. “Aye, the horses were spooked, but not as much as my men. ’Twas damn eerie, Julian. The Scots cavalry was bearing down on our heels. But then, the wall of fog almost slammed behind us. I heard their shouts, but they could not discover the way to follow.”
“’Tis spake the ravens and the fog be part of some ancient spell for protection.” Julian signaled the servant to fetch wine for his cousin. “Word of the battle reached us. Was the rout as bad as the messenger said? Did many perish?”
“Outside of clans who supported the English side—most of their nobles were killed or made prisoner to Edward. Mayhap six score knights, the earls of Atholl, Ross and Menteith, son of John Comyn of Badenoch, the Morays, and possibly a dozen magnates are all being transported south. Buchan’s army was destroyed.” Damian sat in the chair. “I am not sure when I’ve been more weary.”
“Then, it is done. Edward will soon go back to England.” Julian pronounced with relief. “Has your grandsire been told you assume the title as lord of Lyonglen?”
“With the current state of the cou
ntry—who can tell? My guess―Edward sent no word, so they shan’t expect me. Still, news travels on swift wings through the Highlands.” Damian leaned back in the chair, clearly tired. “I hear conflicting tales about his condition. Some speak he be too ill to rise to Balliol’s standard. Others carry tides he remains home because he be too busy swiving his young bride.”
Julian arched his brow as he sat in a chair, facing his cousin. “Sounds as if you be cut from the same cloth as the old lord, eh?”
“Soon enough I shall see. Though I shall have trouble calling a woman grandmother when she is younger than I.” He rubbed his forehead, pain clouding his countenance. “For now, I pass on the offer of food. I would appreciate a place where I can remove my accoutrements and wash, then a nice soft bed so I may sleep half the day away. Mayhap a pretty serving wench to soothe my...brow. I owe you a boon if you send that one my way.”
Julian started to laugh, until he saw Damian’s eyes targeted Tamlyn. Rage erupted through him, nearly blinding his reason. It now struck him odd, how easily he had demanded Tamlyn help him bathe on the first morn. It was his right. As visiting nobility, Damian should be afforded the same honor. Only, Julian knew, though he loved his cousin as a brother, he would kill him if he touched her.
“Tamlyn,” Julian called, summoning her to his side.
Damian’s pale green-grey eyes glittered with desire, his smile widening. “Now that be a woman, Julian, to spend your life making babes with.”
Tamlyn hesitated, her eyes casting about to assure all the injured had received care, only then did she answer Julian’s summons. She stopped by the arm of his chair. “My lord, the wounded be treated and resting. Auld Bessa says all shall make a full recovery.”
“Tamlyn, I present Damian St. Giles, Lord Ravenhawke, my second-cousin.” Julian possessively took her hand in his. “Damian, this be Tamlyn MacShane, Countess Glenrogha—my betrothed. After banns are proclaimed we shall wed.”
Ravenhawke’s face blanked in shock. “Forgive me. This aching head and a two-day ride without sleep slow me. Beg pardon, Lord Cousin, if I erred.”
Julian glared at him resolutely. “Yes, you did.”
Damian had come to the Challon household as a page, and stayed for training as squire, then knight to Julian’s father. So like his brothers and him, everyone assumed Damian another dragon in Michael’s litter. Julian loved Damian and never treated him as anything but a brother. Still, the tone of the reproof saw Damian take measure. His cousin’s eyes shifted to Tamlyn in reassessment.
Jealousy burned within Julian, as he knew what his cousin saw. Tamlyn’s kirtle was simple. She wore no jewelry, no ribbons in her hair. Yet, her coloring would see her stand out in any crowd and always draw a man’s eyes. Her sensuality would hit them like a fist to the heart.
Damian was a playful rogue. He loved females. They fascinated him endlessly. Even so, none could lure him into making them his lady wife. As he watched his cousin stare at Tamlyn, the hot sensation flared bright within him. Julian had the odd feeling Tamlyn might have been the woman to change that, for his cousin stared at her with the same longing Julian knew was in his own heart.
“Well-come to Glenrogha, Lord Ravenhawke,” Tamlyn spake, then gave him a smile.
Damian stared at her with a sadness that had her glancing in question to Julian.
“I give thanks to you for your hospitality and for the care of my men, Lady Tamlyn, and offer you felicitations on your upcoming nuptials.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I am sure you shall make all Julian’s dreams come true. He is a lucky man.”
Resentment scalding his mind, Julian barely heard Tamlyn’s reply, or when she mumbled a few words, before hurrying away to see the meal was ready for those wanting it. His eyes followed her departure, lingering on her with pride. Burning with the need to claim her as his.
“I fear there be need for me to explain, cousin. I am not so usually clubfooted in situations of this sort. ’Tis only…”
Julian swung back to Damian. “Only what?—before I drag you out on the quatrain and use you for a practice dummy.”
“No female has ever before held the power to make me care, because I have seen this vision of a woman before my mind’s eye. That fey voice I oft ignore—and regret doing so—brings images to me. Flashes. Dreams. Whatever you wish to call them. ’Tis the Scots blood from my mother. Usually, these shards of farsight prove on target.”
“And?” Julian suddenly suspected what his cousin would say.
“The face in my mind—the face of the woman I felt was fated to be my bride—’tis the face of Lady Tamlyn.” Damian’s countenance was etched with deep regret.
“Over your dead body.” Julian said quietly with an arched brow, but true menace threaded through the words.
Unsettled, Damian nodded. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
♦◊♦
Exhausted, Tamlyn brooded, whilst checking wounds of St. Giles’ soldiery one last time. The day had been long, filled with caring for Ravenhawke’s men. She blinked, fighting to stay awake. At the top of her concerns: how to proceed this night. Did she just go to the bedchamber with Challon as if all was settled? Should she demand they discuss matters first? Of course, she could seize the excuse she needed to stay and keep an eye on the injured, but all rested peaceful under Bessa’s potions, even the ones who had the arrows removed. No coward, she would not wrap herself in that lie.
Challon seemed engaged before the fire, talking quietly with his squires and two knights. Once, she had passed close enough to overhear that they planned to ride on the morrow to rid the area of the Scots who attacked Lord Ravenhawke’s party. Why their words were lowly spoken. The Dragon was unsure how the Scots now under his command would react to these tides.
Checking the wounded one final time, she sucked in her stubborn bent, and girded herself to face Julian Challon before the others.
He slouched in the lord’s chair, feet crossed at the ankles. The gold spurs gleamed by the firelight, matching the glint in his eyes as he tracked her every move. She had felt him staring all evening as she tended chores. Oh, he haughtily feigned being unaware of that curious sentience, carrying on discussions and issuing orders. Only, his focus constantly brushed against her mind, causing bumps to slither up her spine.
She realized how she approached retiring this eve was important to this proud man. He was not going to force the issue, fearful her Pict temper would flare, and they would end up clashing before his men and her people. His pride was strong, as strong as hers. Yet, in some ways, he had more to lose. A simple point in their lives―her wanting to retire and unsure how to proceed. A small choice, yes, but one that could have repercussions—for them, for their people.
Well, she was no child to blanch before the unknown. She must use all her cleverness and craft to ensure life traveled a path to where she could find some happiness.
Sucking in a deep breath, she approached the Black Dragon.
A tangible pall filled the air. Everyone pretended naught of import was about to occur. Howbeit, ’twas little doubt all waited to see how Glenrogha’s lady proceeded.
This was the third time today for them to play this game.
As the noon meal was served, Challon came to escort her to the table. She knew it was more than courtly manners. He wanted Glenrogha’s people to witness her at his side, accepting her role as his lady. She escaped that concession by insisting she needed to care for his cousin’s men. Challon nodded, letting her have that space. He settled his cousin in a room abovestairs, and then went on patrol with his guard.
The second time came as supper had been placed upon the trestle tables. The same worried hush had descended earlier when he appeared at her elbow and took her hand, saying it was time for the evening meal. Her jaw ached from the tenseness, but she reined in her erratic emotions and complied. Her turn to give in. Squaring her shoulders, she allowed him to lead her to the lord’s table. Though he did naught to flaunt the small victory, t
he people within Glenrogha sensed his will ruled. She was at his side, a signal of her acceptance of his new role here.
Her stomach muscles tightened again, remembering what that small acquiescence symbolized. Well, she was no gooseberry fool. The path was clear. ’Twas not her place to challenge the will of the Auld Ones. Even her lord father had recognized the Black Dragon had a place in her life.
She desired Challon. Never one for games, ’twas silly to try and pretend otherwise. No man affected her as he did. Not his brothers. Nor the near mirror image Damian St. Giles.
’Twas only natural, she had to admit upon first sight the striking resemblance gave her pause. The visions foretold of the coming of a lord whose color was that of the ravens. Damian St. Giles was so very much like his powerful cousin, and part of his device was a raven. Could there not be a mistake in understanding Evelynour’s foretelling?
She had only to stand before the two men to hear The Kenning’s answer. She found Baron St. Giles attractive. He bore the clear stamp of the beautiful men of Challon—same black hair and green eyes. Another man who would draw all females’ gazes. Any faint response she felt toward the cousin came because he was a reflection of Challon, enough to be his twin. Even with eyes closed, she’d ken the difference between the two. There was only one man to touch her emotions in such a disturbing manner.
It was up to her to gird her pride and learn to deal with the vexing warlord.
Mayhap, giving into him would not be so easy had she not glimpsed the pain inside the man, the hunger for some measure of peace here. Desires so strong, the empathy disarmed her. That longing was a tool in her hands. She was a smart woman. She had the power to offer him what he craved.
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 17