The Knight's Bride

by Stone, Lyn

  Would her husband give her up without a fight once he realized she had deceived him about her father’s consent? Would he even have the choice? Of a sudden, Honor experienced another sharp stab of the guilt she tried to hold at bay. Had she stated her reasons truthfully at the outset, would Tavish have wed her anyway? Somehow, she did not believe so.

  “Ah, well, hindsight serves nothing,” she muttered to herself. Under no circumstances would she surrender to her father’s keeping. To escape him and his onerous plans for her, she had lied, stolen and wed under false pretense. She felt no satisfaction at all in that. Only relief, and even that now proved temporary, considering Melior’s news. However, wrongly as she had behaved, Honor admitted that whatever else it took to maintain her sanctuary here, she would do without hesitation.

  More than her own life lay at risk now.

  Alan had brought Tavish home. The huge stone settled into place as though it had formed there. Alan released the ropes lashed to it from his captured warhorse and tethered the fractious beast to a nearby tree.

  Blood trickled down from beneath his crudely wrapped right shoulder. Damn! The wound had broken open yet again. He cursed the mess even though he realized the fresh bleeding might likely save him from Tavish’s fate. Hopefully any poison would leak out with the blood and sweat. He swiped his arm clean with the tail of his plaid and hoped he had not lost his needle.

  After a longing glance toward the cool, rushing water of the nearby burn, he sat down beside the smooth, rounded rock and began to chisel on it. Plying a fist-size rock and a sharp jag on his old, broken broadsword, Alan pounded out the design.

  Poor Tav, he thought as he worked, had everything in life a man could ask. Snug home, bonny wife, a bit of coin put by. Alan supposed he would never know suchlike himself. Considering that, mayhaps Tavish had been the luckier one after all. For two months, at least, Tav had lived every man’s dream. “Leastways, most men dream of it. Not me, o’ course,” Alan muttered, chipping away at the stone. “Aye, ye had it all, old son,” he grunted. “And ’tis sorry, I am, ye lost it too soon.”

  When Alan finished, the outline of a shield listed slightly to one side and the wolfs head he had intended resembled a bitten apple with two leaves. Well, the Lady Honor could replace this if she wished. For now it would serve to mark the place. Frowning at his clumsy effort, he piled up a pyramid of small stones in front to form the cairn. Then he rose, straightened his muddy breacan and shook the kinks out of his legs.

  Drawing himself up to his full height, Alan held the hilt of the broken sword high above the marker he had made to cast the shadow of the cross over it. “God keep ye, Tavish Mac Ellerby.”

  He thought to say more of a farewell, but the sudden thunder of hooves shook the ground beneath his bare feet. Facing the approaching riders, Alan drew Tavish’s undamaged sword from its sling on the horse and assumed a battle stance. Just then, the wind unfurled the colors held by the advance man.

  Lion D’or on a red field. The Bruce.

  The party of horsemen surrounded him in a flurry of jingling harnesses and stamping hooves. Alan dropped to one knee and grinned up at the rider on the prancing gray.

  “We might have been Edward’s men, Strode. Did it never occur to you to run and hide?” Bruce asked.

  Alan threw back his head and laughed. “If there’s an Englisher this side o’ London, I’ll kiss yer beastie’s arse and call him sweeting!”

  Bruce dismounted and stretched out his arm for a clasp of greeting. He winced when he noticed Alan’s wound. “We’re collecting Douglas’s men just south of here, and then on to York. My brother told me he gave you leave after our victory, and now I ken why!” Bruce wrinkled his nose at the sluggish red trail still working its way down Alan’s bare arm. “See to that hurt or we’ll be burying you. You’re like to lose that arm.”

  Alan nodded once and looked away, over the hills that separated him from Rowicsburg castle. “It will heal. Mayhaps I’ll join ye later.”

  “You would see your father first, then?” Bruce asked, more than a hint of warning in his voice.

  “I’ll never go to Rowicsburg,” Alan answered with a lift of his chin. “Neither will I go north. I have done with Uncle Angus as well. Neil Broglan is his tanist now, and a good laird he’ll be. I’ve no business wi’ either side of my family.” He cocked his head toward the new grave. “I am here because Tavish Ellerby sent me with orders for his widow. And the news of his death.”

  He had nowhere to go after this mission for Tavish. His English father had packed him off to the Highlands, to his mother’s people when he was but a lad. The uncle who raised him there had chosen another nephew, a full Scot, as the next MacGill chieftain. That was as it should be, Alan supposed.

  Life as a soldier suited him well enough. However, stubbornness and one strong arm were all he had to offer any cause at the moment. This king of his clearly had no use for either.

  “Aye well, I believe you then. ’Tis well known, your love of the truth.” Bruce glanced over at his men. “Some do say you take it to extremes.” Several of Bruce’s retinue nodded sagely and exchanged wry looks.

  Alan knew why. He never said what he thought a man—or a woman, for that matter—wanted to hear, unless it was true. Not even when a falsehood would serve him better than a fact. ’Twas a thing all the Bruces depended upon. As had his uncle. Alan took tremendous pride in the one inarguable attribute he possessed and held so dear. He was an honest man.

  Only Alan knew the reason behind his one constant and unwavering virtue, and why holding to it had become a near obsession over the years. His father had lied, saying that he would bring Alan home soon. His mother had lied, promising to write to him regularly and come for him when the border troubles eased. His uncle had lied, vowing to the mother that her son would be groomed as the next laird. None of it came to pass. Disgusted with the lot, Alan vowed to himself that he would never visit a lie on anyone, regardless of the price. So, he was known as Alan the True. His reputation had followed like a faithful hound when he left the Highlands. Sometimes it bit him, but for the most part, served him well. As it did now.

  The Bruce glanced at the crudely carved device on the stone marker and back to Alan. “Give Ellerby’s lady my condolence. I heard that he fought well. He made plans for the lady and his property, did he?”

  “Writ and sealed, sire. Betwixt him and her, I’m thinking.”

  “I’d see it, Alan.”

  “I think not. ’Tis private word from the deathbed to his beloved.”

  Bruce turned away and paced for a moment, then came face-to-face with Alan, looking up, since he was a head shorter. “Give me the letter, Strode. I command it.”

  Alan tensed, his left hand closing over his sword hilt.

  “Give me the goddamned letter, man, or we’ll take it from you!” Bruce thundered.

  “Och, but ye’ve less than a score o’ lads wi’ ye, sire!” Alan remarked.

  Bruce tightened his lips. His eyes bugged out for a full second before his crack of laughter shattered the tense silence.

  Alan waited, wearing a beatific smile. He knew well the image he presented, even enhanced it whenever he could. The irreverent, overgrown jester. Opponents usually underestimated him because of his demeanor, but not Robert Bruce. The king knew well what lay under the cloak of humour. And would brook no insubordinance concealed by it. Much as he hated to do it, Alan prepared for surrender.

  Bruce sobered after a bit and raised an arm, draping it casually around Alan’s shoulders. “Now listen to me, Strode, and listen well. Byelough Keep is important because of its protected location. The hidden caves near it could hide an army. Or a wealth of supplies to keep one victualed. I’ll not have it fall into unsympathetic hands by some whim of a dead man.

  “Now then,” Bruce continued, “we could kill you and take the letter. I suspect we would have to. Even should you overpower my wee troop here and escape, I would simply follow you to Byelough and demand it of the w
idow. You choose.”

  Alan considered. Tavish’s lady would be upset enough as it was. Devastated, most likely. A visit from Bruce would hardly provide any consolation, especially given the king’s current mood.

  “Verra well, have it then.” Alan reached beneath his wide leather belt and drew out the folded packet, slapping it into Bruce’s outstretched hand. “But I mislike this.”

  Bruce frowned as his long fingers broke the amber glob of crude candle wax sealing the letter. “And I mislike you at times, Strode. I ought to kill you for insolence, you know. Might do so yet.”

  Silence reigned as Bruce read the words Tavish had written at the hour of his death. A calculating smile stretched his noble face as he finished and refolded the parchment. Then the smile swiftly died. “Kneel!” he ordered in a sharp voice.

  Alan knelt, bracing himself as the Bruce raised his steel to the level of Alan’s neck. It hovered just above his left shoulder. He did not want to believe Bruce meant to kill him, but neither could he disregard the fact that he was on his knees with the man’s blade at his throat. A protest seemed cowardly under the circumstances, as well as futile, if the Bruce meant business.

  “Could I have a priest?” Alan asked conversationally, holding Bruce’s gaze.

  “You’d shock one out of his frock, and I am in trouble enough with the church as it is,” Bruce declared.

  “Ah, well, then. Proceed wi’ what ye were about to do.” He hoped Robert only meant to make a point, frighten him a bit. God knew the rascal had a wicked twist to his mind. Then Alan recalled the blow Rob had dealt the English deBohun just before the battle when they rode out one to one. The man’s head bad bounced along the ground like a sheep’s bladder ball while the rest of him rode a ways on down the field. Laugh, the man might, but Bruce never wasted time with idle threats.

  Alan closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to recall the prayer of contrition, the first bead of the rosary, his mother’s face. Nothing came to mind.

  Death held no appeal for him in the best of circumstances, but he had always faced it without fear. Determined to brazen it out to the very end, he looked up at the king and smiled. “I expect ye’ll be sorry for this.”

  “No doubt.” Bruce chuckled. Hardly a royal sound, but then he was new to the post, Alan thought.

  The sharp edge of steel pressed threateningly against Alan’s jugular for a long, nerve-racking moment. Then Bruce’s voice rang out, “I dub thee Sir Alan of Strode.” The flat of the blade bounced on his left shoulder and gently touched the damaged right. “Serve God, king, protect the weak and strive for right.” He turned the sword, holding the jeweled hilt for Alan to kiss.

  Alan tasted the metal-and-emerald surface against his lips, cool and faintly salty with sweat. He welcomed it like a lover’s lips, smacking of honeyed mead. Kiss of life, he mused, barely restraining a shudder of relief. He even prolonged the gesture, bidding for time, since his legs felt too weak to support him just now.

  It was not that he had feared dying, he told himself, for had faced death often enough in battle. But dying like this, on his knees, and for no good reason, would have troubled him a bit.

  “Ready for the buffet?” Bruce asked, clenching and unclenching his gloved right hand, grinning with new merriment. Alan could just imagine the strength waiting behind that blow. The cuff supposed to help him remember his new charge of knighthood might well render him unable to recall his own name.

  “Aye, ready.” He rolled his eyes and puffed out his cheeks. The king’s fist connected with a solid thunk that knocked Alan backward to the ground in an ungainly sprawl.

  “Rise, Sir, and do glory to Scotland!” Bruce let out a bark of laughter. “And right that plaidie, mon. Yer own glory’s naked to th’ breeze!”

  Alan scrambled to his feet and made a sketchy bow. He was a Sir! He wished to high heaven Tav could have witnessed this farce. He glanced at the cairn under which he’d laid his friend, and then up at the clouds. A unexpected breeze fluttered through the leaves of a rowan tree. Mayhaps he had.

  “Do I do homage or some such?” he asked Bruce, uncertain of the protocol. The whole event bore no structure at all and damned little ceremony. He had witnessed a knighting only once. There was a good deal more to it than this if he remembered rightly.

  “I took your oath last year, if you recall. Knowing your penchant for truth, I don’t doubt me that will last your lifetime. Plus, you’ve killed at least a score of English in the past fortnight. We’ll let that do.”

  Bruce picked a wad of grass off Alan’s muddy elbow. “Clean yourself up a bit before you call on the lady, eh? You look as if you’ve been dragged through a bloody bog. Have you soap? And proper clothing?”

  Alan drew himself up, ignoring the noisy mirth of Bruce’s men. “Aye, I do. Ye needn’t worry I’ll disgrace ye, sire. ’Tis just that war dulls a mon’s polish.” He followed the king’s gaze as it traveled downward to Alan’s bare legs and feet.

  “It does that.” Bruce slapped him on his good shoulder and turned to mount up. “Oh, by the way, tell Lady Ellerby that I second her husband’s behest. Nay, wait. Say that I command she follow his directions to the letter. Immediately, as he instructs.”

  With a hoot of laughter, the king kicked his horse and galloped away.

  Alan shrugged and grinned. King Rob was a daftie. Always had been.

  Chapter Two

  Byelough Keep blended well into the landscape, nearly invisible. Had Tavish not given such clear directions, Alan knew he might never have found it. The cottages bore the same gray-green color as the surrounding hills of mottled stone and bracken. ’Twas just as Tavish had described a hundred times in the hours he had spent longing for the place. If not for the wisps of smoke from the evening home fires, Alan might have missed seeing it altogether.

  He urged the English warhorse onward toward the gates of Byelough, towing his own highland pony and the two wain drays loaded down with booty from the battle.

  “Who goes?” came a steely voice from the lichencovered watchtower. That tower looked nothing more than a massive tree from a distance, rising from a wall that appeared a naturally formed cliff. Ingenious. And difficult to breach, he reckoned, despite the lack of drawbridge and moat.

  “Sir Alan of Strode,” he announced gravely. “I bear word from Lord Tavish Ellerby for his lady wife. Open and bid me enter.” Alan marked the two archers poised on the battlements.

  A long silence ensued before the heavy gates swung open. Alan rode through. He noted immediately the cleanness of the small bailey. There were well-kept outbuildings and neatly clipped grass, what little there was of it. Even the bare ground looked raked and free of clutter and mud holes.

  The few people he could see appeared scrubbed to a shine and well fed. A silent stable lad took the reins as Alan dismounted, and a young, dark-haired priest met him at the steps leading into the keep itself.

  “Welcome, my son. I am Father Dennis,” the priest intoned in a voice that sounded three times as old as its owner. Alan suppressed his laughter. Son, indeed. He likely had a good five years on the holy lad. The lanky priest smiled serenely as though he divined Alan’s thoughts. “Our lady awaits within.”

  Alan nodded and followed the cleric inside, uncertain whether he should have kissed the laddie’s ring. Priests were as uncommon as clean linen where he had spent his last nineteen years. They trod the fresh, fragrant rushes toward a door at the back of the hall.

  Several servants arranging trestle tables paused to study him. He threw them a smile of approval for the looks of the place. Colorful tapestries softened the stone walls and the few tables already set up bore pristine cloths without any obvious holes or spots. A brightly painted depiction of the Ellerby device crowned a large fire hole built into the wall near the head table. And where, he wondered, were the hall’s dogs? Banished or being laundered? He chuckled inwardly at the image of hounds spitting maws full of soapwort. Dead easy, this ranked as the cleanest place he had ever
been. No wonder Tav had loved it.

  Alan silently thanked the Bruce for suggesting the bath and change of clothes. Of course, given a moment or so, he surely would have thought of it himself. After scouring himself raw with the grainy soap and drying in the sun, he had prepared his knightly regalia with care. He had ripped the yellow gryphon device off the red silk surcoat and donned the garment over the confiscated English mail hauberk and chausses.

  Chain mail had necessitated the wearing of a padded gambeson and a heavy loincloth, as well. Both of which he despised. Even his hair felt too confined, its dark auburn hank bound at the back of his neck by a remnant of the torn yellow silk. Altogether discomforting, was this grand chivalric posturing. But necessary.

  As soon as he established the fact that he was a knight to these people of Byelough Keep, he would change back into his breacan and be damned to them all if they thought him common.

  Being a baron’s son had never counted for much in his life, but he did feel pride in his newly earned title of Sir. The least he could do was make a good first impression.

  “This way,” the priest said, beckoning Alan toward the sturdy oak portal at the back of the hall. “Milady’s solar,” he explained.

  “Sir Alan of Strode, the lady Honor,” Father Dennis announced in his low-pitched voice. “He comes from your lord husband, milady.”

  Alan’s stomach clenched with apprehension as the lady raised her gaze from her needlework. Eyes the color of a dove’s breast regarded him with bright curiosity. Her dark brows rose like graceful wings. The small, straight nose quivered slightly as her rose petal mouth stretched into a blinding, white smile. He stood entranced, just as he had expected to. Tavish was ever an apt one for description, and Lady Honor proved no exaggeration. Alan thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Perfect.