A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Mayhap it was the sense of being blessed with this marriage that she feared drawing the ire of the Auld Ones. She loved Julian, but one arrow, or a thrust of a sword, and he could be taken from her.

  As they rode out of the fortress, destined for the kirk, Tamlyn spotted a magpie landing on the open gate. Her breath sucked in. One magpie was a foretelling of sorrow. She breathed again as a second one fluttered to sit by the first, then a third. And fourth. The presence of the birds caused the cold bile of unease to rise in the pit of her stomach.

  Challon, riding at her side, noticed her dark mood. “What brings forth such a scowl on this joyous morn, my lady?”

  She glanced back to the birds, seeing three more had perched alongside the others. “The birds. ’Tis most peculiar for them to roost there. Lore sayeth when they gather in numbers they are foretelling the future. One means sorrow. Two for mirth. Three bring blessings for a wedding. Four be an augury for a coming death.” Her words died as the images of the nightmare flooded her mind. Cold dread rushed through her being.

  “Only blackbirds with white feathers, naught more, Tamlyn. Likely, similar to the ones that haunt the passes.”

  “Nay, those be ravens. Magpies have the white markings and are smaller.” She stared at the birds sitting in a row. Their heads turned slowly, their eyes following her as she rode passed.

  Julian leaned over in the saddle and placed his hand over hers. “’Tis seven birds only. Mayhap, they heard tides the Dragon of Challon weds his beautiful betrothed this morn and wish to witness it. What augury does seven magpies speak?”

  “Seven herald a secret that must never be told,” she told him. Unsure what they truly forewarned. Did their presence warn her not to tell Challon of her dark dream, of things yet to come? Would he even believe her if she warned him? Oh, she wished she could speak to Evelynour. She would ken their message.

  He gave her a soft smile. “Pay it no need, my lady. I make my own luck.”

  They reined their horses before the church, and Moffet rushed forward to take the leads. Pagan rubbed his muzzle against the mare’s neck, murmuring to her. Challon lightly smacked the nose of the randy horse and pushed him back, so he could lift Tamlyn from the sidesaddle.

  As Julian set her upon her feet, his eyes locked with hers. The breathless moment spun out long threads, as he seemed to want to speak something of grave import. Her heart swelled as she hoped he might finally say he loved her. Instead, he placed a kiss to her cheek. “You are beautiful. A bride worthy of the Dragon of Challon.”

  When he saw she was still feeling skittish, his hand lightly circled the side of her neck and gave it a small squeeze. Growing concerned, Challon looked down on her. “Those birds? They still bother you?”

  “Unsettled me a wee bit,” she admitted.

  A cloud passed through his dark green eyes. “Be that all that distresses you? Not having a second think on this marriage?”

  She shook her head. “Nay. Truly that does no’ plague me. As I spake before, ’tis the will of the Auld Ones.”

  “I would wish for acceptance, not resignation.” He took her hand and led her to the steps of the ancient kirk. The throngs of people, lining both sides of the road, fell in behind them, following. Malcolm, dressed in his robes of the Culdee, stood on the top step, waiting.

  “We bid well-come to Tamlyn and Julian who have come to plight their troth...”

  As her uncle began the ceremony, Tamlyn nervously glanced about her. So many people had gathered to witness the union of the Chosen Daughter of Clan Ogilvie to the Black Dragon of Challon, their new lord. Everything around her had a pall of unreality. She trembled as she tried to concentrate on the faces of the people of Glen Shane. Most were vague to her mind, as if she were having trouble focusing on their features.

  Though she had convinced Challon there was no need to move the wedding date forward he had still insisted. Through The Kenning, she finally sensed he was simply eager for the ceremony to be done, to put a seal to their bonding. She had asked him to learn to tolerate the ways of her people, so she had to accept his will as well. They reached a compromise, and Malcolm agreed the wedding could take place within a sennight’s time.

  To her right, in a line behind Julian, stood his brothers, both dressed in the black livery of Challon. After them, came Baron St. Giles, though he wore ramients of greys. ’Twas clear to all the men bore the stamp of Challon.

  The days passed in a flurry of activities. With all the preparations, there was barely time to catch a breath. Despite the hectic rush, concern over the continued absence of Lord Ravenhawke had cast a dark note. Challon sent out riders in all directions, but none had seen the handsome black-haired man. At Coinnleir Wood, her cousins admitted sharing a horn of mead with him, but had no idea where he could have gone.

  Much to their surprise, early yestermorn, he had shown up at the gates of Glenrogha. His clothing was neat, he was clean. In spite of his pristine condition, he seemed disoriented. When he finally was able to talk coherently, he spun a long tale about being taken and held captive by the Faery Queen. Challon had laughed, thinking his cousin merely made up a story to cover his absence. Tamlyn wondered. All had heard how Thomas of Erceldoune was carried away by the Queen of Elfland, so many of Glenrogha’s people cast little doubt on Damian’s explanation.

  The long, thick lashes lifted and Damian’s eyes collided with hers. St. Giles’ eyes were green, a trait of Challon, but a grey-green, neither one color nor the other, yet both. Their lightness was emphasized by the trappings of grey clothing he wrapped himself in. The pale gaze seemed to look right through her. The way he stared at her set Tamlyn to unease.

  Before Beltaine, he had watched her, but it was with a coveting, a sadness, knowing his feelings weren’t returned and could never be. Now...well, she was not sure what she saw in his eyes. A question? Only, Tamlyn had no idea what that question was. Oddly, yestereve he had sought her out and declared himself her champion. The avowal surprised her. Emotions lived within him that had no right to exist. His haunted eyes seemed to speak to her. But what? Regret? Reassurance that all was for the best? Envy?

  Her questions were pushed aside, as Julian turned to follow the direction of her eyes.

  Malcolm’s voice carried for all to hear. “Therefore, if any man can show just cause why these two may not lawfully be joined together by God's Law and the Laws of the Realm, let him now speak, or else forevermore hold his peace.”

  Julian lifted at warning brow at Damian, who had the grace to lower his eyes to the ground. Turning back, Julian sent her a stare of reproach. A proud man, he would not brook her looking upon another in favor.

  At Julian’s silent admonishment, Tamlyn quailed inside. ’Twas not seemly for her to be staring so long at another man whilst words of union were being spoken. Lightheaded, the trembling was worsening. Why she was so off kilter, she could not say. In spite of everything against it, she knew in her heart Julian Challon was the man she wanted for her husband. They had already lain together, so this was not virginal jitters. Mayhap it was the finality of how different her existence would be from now on, how she was placing her life into his keeping. She fought against the bubble of panic rising within her.

  The words of Malcolm droned on and on, having no form or substance, just a constant hum, and she found it hard to keep her eyes open. She turned her gaze to the beautiful face of Julian, seeking assurance from the man she now bound herself. He glared back at her, his dark green eyes flashing angry fire. At first, she thought it was because he had caught her staring at St. Giles. Then awareness dawned—there was silence, which in turn, only seemed to increase the depth of the earl’s ire. Tamlyn felt confused, distressed, edging toward dread. Her chest heaved with trying to draw a breath. She fought to shake this strange whirling in her thoughts, to banish the odd spell possessing her.

  Julian’s hand squeezed hers hard, sending a message, but it only made her more dazed. Beneath the anger, she saw worry and fear.

&n
bsp; “Tamlyn, shall you take Julian, earl of Challon, now earl of Glenrogha, to be your lord and husband? In God's ordinance accept the covenant of the holy estate of matrimony? Shall you obey and serve him, love and honor him in sickness and in health? Forsaking all others, and keep you only unto him, until death do you part?” Malcolm repeated the words, asking for her consent.

  She blinked, only just understanding her uncle asked for the response before and the silence had been his waiting for her reply. Her eyes flew wide as she again looked to the man to her right. His mouth pressed into a thin line. Tamlyn comprehended he thought her hesitation defiance. As if she would refuse to plight her troth. ’Twas only confusion, starting with those stupid birds, but he would not understand that now. She opened her mouth to apologize, but immediately stopped, knowing this was not the place.

  For the third time, her uncle repeated the sacraments. She swallowed hard. So much rested upon this simple response, so many extremes warring within her. She hated that Julian had come to her as a conqueror, that her lord father faced imprisonment at his hands, yet she would not lie and say she did not want him. Oh, why could the Fates not have woven a beautiful spell? Julian could have accepted her father’s invitation and come to the Highlands as an honored guest. They would have been introduced, and the undeniable attraction, their blazing passion would have made the forging of a marriage inevitable. She would have been giddy awaiting the day he claimed her. Instead, he rode into the glen as an invader, claiming all, destroying Castle Kinmarch, and taking her just as he took the fortresses. No wooing, not soft words of desire, just demands. Naught about love.

  It finally hit her what was so wrong about this day. He had wanted her with a fierceness that was breathtaking, but did he love her? Could he love her? That worry left her shaken.

  Julian’s spine straightened as his head tilted back, so black was his anger. His fear. The Kenning whispered clearly, how desperate this man was to hold onto her, to fashion a life that would lead him from the darkness of his soul. He was a prideful, arrogant man. But he needed her. Desperately.

  Tamlyn closed her eyes, allowing the gift to flow through her. He needed her. For now, that would be good enough.

  The Culdee again asked for Tamlyn’s consent. When he finished, a buzz fluttered through the masses that had come to witness their joining, murmurings as to why Tamlyn withheld her consent.

  Opening her eyes, she turned toward him. She offered him a faint smile. Moistening her lips, she spoke up so all would hear. “Aye, I take this man as my lord husband. To honor him above all others, provide comfort, support him in times of troubles, and give him daughters and sons.”

  Julian slowly turned toward her, startled by the lengthy declaration. He never expected her to make such a clear assent.

  “Through my office of Culdee, I bless the joining of this union of Tamlyn and Julian. May hereafter they remain in perfect love and peace together. Before all, I pronounce they be Man and Wife. Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  Tamlyn looked up at Julian, as he led her up the remaining steps and into the church. He paused under the arched door and smiled. That smile was like the brightest sunshine, dispelling the shadowy corners of her troubled mind.

  ♦◊♦

  “Surely you jest?” Julian glared at Malcolm, as the Culdee explained the rites of the second ceremony soon to take place―the pagan one. “I see why you waited ’til just before we depart for the stone circle to illuminate me as to the nature of this ritual—and my part in it.”

  Outside of the moments before a battle, he had never felt this edgy. His patience was wearing thin. He had not slept the previous night, anticipation of the wedding thrumming through his blood. His troubled mind played tricks, tormenting him with possibilities that might arise and Tamlyn would be taken from him. He wanted the ceremony done, and their vows plighted. Once that was behind him he felt he might breathe again.

  The dawning broke, spilling its rose-colored beauty across the hills, and for a moment, the world sighed in tranquil contentment. From that point, things grew more off kilter with each passing heartbeat. Tamlyn had awoken from a dark nightmare. He had held her, assured her that he would protect her and vanquish any troubles. That seemed to bring a measure of calm to her spirit, but the clouded look never left her eyes. He tried to get her to speak of her fears, but she had just shaken her head no; she did not wish to have discourse of unhappy things on a day meant for joy.

  Within a short time, her sisters and the crone arrived and shooed him from the chamber, so they could prepare Tamlyn. He had withdrawn to her old chamber on the floor below to ready himself. Destain and Guillaume playfully served as his squires, and proved good company to distract him from his constant fretting over Tamlyn.

  Now, he stood in his wedding finery, feeling unsure. His whole life he had known where he was heading and what he intended to accomplish. Never had he experienced this sense of lacking control. He damn well misliked the feeling. Picking up the black leather pouch, he took out the ring he would use for the second ceremony. The crest of Challon. Soon, Tamlyn would be branded as his for the rest of her life.

  With that uplifting thought filling his heart, he had left the room. At the far bend in the hall, he pulled up short when he spotted Tamlyn coming down the stairs from the third floor. A fist lodged in his heart as he looked at the vision that was his bride. He felt pride. He felt blessed. Dressed in the gown Raven had sewn for her, she was a sight that humbled him. Her dark gold hair flowing down her back was a striking contrast to the stark black of the kirtle’s material. When he remembered to breathe again, he took a step forward, intent upon going to her and telling her how honored he was to have her for his wife.

  To his surprise, Damian rushed forward to her, speaking the words of how beautiful she was—the words Julian wanted to say—that was his right to say. His vision turned red as he struggled to control the writhing creature jealousy, had to rein in his spiraling fury as he watched them. Damian turned with his back to him, blocking most of his cousin’s words, but there was little need. He knelt before her, making some sort of declaration. Homage?

  Tamlyn gave him a smile, yet she appeared puzzled by the action. She glanced up and spotted Julian, standing across the edge of the corridor. The faint smile turned to radiance as their eyes met. The tightness in his chest eased. As he joined them, he asked not for an explanation, but merely informed them that it was time to leave for the church.

  Once during the ceremony, he noticed Damian’s gaze remained fixed upon Tamlyn with a mix of sadness and yearning. Worse, her eyes and mind lingered too long on Damian. His cousin had strangely been gone since May Day, and returned nearly silent upon where he’d gone, why he had sent no word. Julian had his men searching for him for days, concerned something had happened to him, with the Scots rebels still on the move in the Highlands. There had been no sign. Since coming back, Damian’s eyes continuously followed Tamlyn. They seemed clouded with confusion.

  ’Twas good the marriage was taking place a sennight sooner. Let Damian affix the reality of their marriage in his mind.

  His temper flared at Tamlyn’s glancing to his cousin, the rising irritation only kept at bay because her expression seemed questioning, naught more. Still, it troubled him. Damian had advantages in her mind: he was half Scot, blood of Auld Alba, he was not her conqueror, nor had not made prisoner of her lord father. Second thoughts? Would Tamlyn have preferred a union with Damian? His chest burned with fury at that thought.

  He told himself she had not danced with Damian around the balefire, had not led him to the apple orchard. Well, mattered not. Their lots were cast. In a few short breaths, he would bind her to him for life. She would be his and no man—kinsman or not—would come between them. This night, when he would take her in their marriage bed, she would be his lady wife, and if the union was blessed, he would plant his seed in her belly. Once the life of a Challon Dragon
took root and pulsed within her body, she would feel the brand he placed on her soul.

  The day had been long. After the wedding in the morning, his bride and he reigned over the lavish marriage feast. The meal and festivities had lasted the remainder of the day and into the gloaming. Now, as the hour of Compline was well past, he faced honoring Tamlyn’s request that they marry by her customs.

  “The ritual of the Sword and Ring goes back to the dark times, Lord Challon. The Lord of the Glen―the willing king-god sacrifice―was offered to the Auld Ones. His fate fell to the Lady to choose. I know you see these things as different, strange, but it was a declaration to our women that they controlled their destiny. Whilst some of this will go against what you were taught, please remember this be of import to Tamlyn.”

  “So, I am to offer Tamlyn a ring and a sword. She either takes the ring, or uses my sword to lop off my head?” Julian laughed wryly. “I find little humor in the prospects of being a sacrifice—willing or not.

  “Tamlyn explained these rituals be just an echo of the Auld Ways. My niece shall no’ take your head, Lord Challon. She thinks it too pretty, eh? You offer her the ring and the sword. Tamlyn takes the ring. Then, you drive the sword into the ground by the plaide—”

  “Driving swords into the ground has become rather familiar to me of late,” Julian remarked dryly.

  “’Tis symbolic of plowing the fields—”

  “That I comprehend. Then, I take my lady wife before all?” he asked, still skeptical.

  “Well, yes...and no. The guard screens you—six men from Challon, seven from Clan Ogilvie—all in armor. Can you scorn our lore as so different when English bedding ceremonies are as intrusive, if no’ worse? Weddings of highborn nobility oft end up with the king, a priest and family members from both sides—and even servants—sitting in the bridal chamber. They peek through wooden screens, awaiting the bloody sheet to be tossed from the bed. To me, there be less beauty and meaning to your ways.”

  “I am a Christian. These strong pagan beliefs are unsettling,” Julian admitted. “You as a priest—do these ceremonies not trouble you?”