The Knight's Bride

by Stone, Lyn

  “No, lady, it is—”

  “Trouville? Oh, God help us!”

  “Not him, either. ’Tis yer neighbor, the same man who came last month. He demands you speak with him!” The priest’s eyes sought Sir Alan’s for reassurance. “He wants our lady, sir. Last time he came, he meant to take her and Byelough as well. He must have known Lord Tavish was dead at the time, though we did not. How would he have known that?”

  Honor looked to Alan for an answer. “Could he have seen Tavish fall?” she asked. “Could this man have been at Bannockburn?”

  “Aye, ’tis possible,” Alan admitted. “Most everyone was. I’ll go and ask him.” With that, he set a path out of the hall, down the steps and across the bailey to the wall.

  When Alan reached the wall-walk, Honor halted at the bottom of the rough wooden steps and looked up. He stood between the stone merlons, fists braced on the embrasure, looking every inch a laird, master and defender of all he could see. In that one moment, Honor knew that Tavish Ellerby had done her the ultimate favor in choosing this protector for her and their child. She rushed up to join the man whom she felt certain would keep them safe. “Alan, you must—”

  “Hist, and stay doon, lass,” he muttered, and emphasized it with a heavy hand on her shoulder.

  Thank God her rough highlandman was here without his new and courtly ways. Especially now. She backed against one of the merlons next to him and cautiously peered around it.

  “It is him! You must kill him, sir. You must!”

  He ignored her, shouting down an order, “Remove that helm. I’d no’ speak wi’ some lowlie cowart. Where be yer colors, mon?”

  “Give the orders!” Honor demanded. “Have the bowmen shoot!”

  Alan extended his arm, his hand palm down, toward the men stationed and prepared to loose arrows. He spoke to the party waiting below. “Who be ye and what’s yer business here?”

  A low voice full of laughter boomed up to the parapet, “Ian McAfee ab Shorn ab Nichols ab Gray. Don’t ye know me, Alan?”

  “Ian!” Alan shouted with what sounded like pure glee. “Cousin?” He threw up a hand an slapped the stone. “By God, what do ye here, ye rascally bletherskate?”

  “Come to take a wife! Ellerby’s dead and I wager she’s need of a mon!”

  “Nae more, auld son. I’ve th’ pleasure myself,” Alan said, still laughing. “But ye’re welcome to come drink to our guid fortune.”

  “Have you run mad?” Honor questioned, horrified that he would invite the blackguard inside the very gates. “Kill him!”

  Alan looked down at her and patted her head. “Hush now, sweeting. Ian’s verra nearly kin on my mother’s side. He’s no threat to ye.”

  She grasped his hand and squeezed. “Alan, if you bear me any goodwill at all, at least make him leave. He came here with intent to take Byelough and it is not the first time. Listen to me!” She tried to stop him when he turned to speak to the man again. “Please!”

  With an exasperated sigh, Alan shook his head. “Ye’re overset, hinny, and canna be thinkin’ straight. Ian Gray only meant to do for ye just what I have done. He fought with us and saw yer husband fall in battle. What kind o’ neighbor would he be to let ye fend for yerself, eh? Calmly now, get ye down to the hall and make ready for our first guest.”

  Honor jerked her hand from his. She ran down the steps, across the bailey, and up the stairs to the hall. Dashing right past Nan, she rushed to her solar and bolted the heavy door.

  She dragged Christiana’s cradle into a corner and stationed herself in front of it. She guarded it and herself with the only weapon she could find, the broken sword Alan told her he had used to carve on Tavish’s stone.

  And she waited, furious, determined to defend herself and the babe, since no one else seemed inclined to do so. After what seemed hours, they came.

  “My lady?” Alan’s voice boomed out on the opposite side of the oaken door. “Will you come and order us a hasty repast? The rest of the folk seem glued to the floor wi’ fright!”

  Muted laughter grated on her ears, that of her gullible husband and the pillager Ian Gray.

  Honor gripped the sword with both hands and made ready. Any time now Gray would take advantage of Alan’s trust and overpower him. God only knew what treachery that one planned. All her life she had heard tales of these border ruffians and their vile deeds. They were worse than the highlandmen, her father had said.

  “Come, come, Honor,” Alan cajoled. “Have mercy. We hunger here.”

  “And thirst!” Gray added, still laughing.

  “Be gone, the both of you,” Honor yelled. “Drink yourselves full outside the gates.”

  “Och, what a sharp-tongued wench she be!” Gray declared. “I wish ye joy of her, Alan. ’Tis glad I am my attempt to wed her failed!”

  Honor fumed. Sharp-tongued, indeed! She would show the dog a sharpness if only she had a decent blade.

  She strained to hear Alan’s reply, but the voices drifted away from the door and were lost in the sudden hum of activity in the hall.

  Time crawled by. Her shoulders and arms ached from holding the broken sword aloft. Gradually, she forced herself to relax. Surely if they had not breached the door by now, they would not trouble her further. When the babe cried, Honor reluctantly abandoned her weapon and set about the feeding.

  Somehow she must gain control of that mule-headed knight she had married. She could do it. She knew how to charm. Bending him to her will was surely the only means left to her. She had to use all the weapons available to hold her own. Next time she gave him an order, he must follow it without question. Suppose it had been the comte de Trouville at their gates. Alan would be dead now and she, on her way to France if not dead as well.

  All the while Christiana tugged at her breast, Honor formed a plan of seduction. ’Twas too soon for such, she knew, but her new husband left her small choice. He must be brought to heel so that incidents such as this did not occur again. Alan must be made to pay heed to her when she needed an enemy vanquished.

  Safety lay in his sword arm and in his ability to rally her people. He might train them to fight if only she could persuade him to do it. Yes, persuasion would be needed here.

  This evening, once he had sent Ian Gray on his way and locked the gates behind him, she would proceed.

  Her hour candle burned down two marks as she bathed and dressed herself. She anticipated Alan’s ousting of their erstwhile guest so she could get on with her plans.

  Then Honor heard a single set of footsteps approach the door. “Honor?” Alan called urgently. “Open up now. I would speak with you.”

  “Are you alone?” she asked.

  “Aye, and we must talk. ’Tis important.” He rattled the latch.

  Honor slid off the bed and went to unbar the door. When it opened, Alan slipped inside, went straight to Christiana’s cradle and lifted her out. He turned to Honor. “Come with me. We’re to have the christening!” he declared.

  “Now? Why?” Shocked at the firmness of his tone and the sense of purpose in his movements, Honor moved to bar his way. “But we set it for Sunday next!”

  “Change of plan. Come along now and mind you hold your tongue. I know what I’m about here.”

  “Just a moment! You will tell me what prompted this or I’ll not move from this spot, nor let you take her.”

  Alan shifted the babe to the crook of one arm and grasped Honor’s elbow with the other. “Father Dennis is to christen Kit, and Ian Gray will stand godfather. Dinna worry for her safety. His men are locked outside the gates, and Ian came in unarmed.” He rushed on, giving Honor no chance to object. “I asked Mistress Nanette to serve as godmother as she ranks highest save yerself. Good thing you were churched and can attend, for Ian should know you were there and approved the choice. We had best see this done. Hurry now.”

  Honor sputtered. “A-approved the choice? Ha! That man will never lay eyes on—”

  “Aye, he will that and more. Best done whilst he
’s in his cups, too,” Alan said, explaining hurriedly. “If he is bound to Kit’s family by a tie such as this, he’ll owe us his loyalty. Come an attack or other troubles, Ian will be obliged to come to our aid.”

  Alan tilted his head and regarded her with a half grin. “Also, he canna hope to wed Kit’s mother and get these lands, even should I someday expire from an arrow to the back or suchlike.”

  “God forbid!” Honor quickly crossed herself at the thought. “What is to keep him from it?”

  “Laws of affinity. He’ll then be related to you by this canny act.”

  “I thought he was already related to you!” Honor said angrily. She had no desire to see the dolt again, much less become a relative of his, by affinity or any other thing.

  “My mother’s cousin wed one of his, I believe. Not close enough to shame him away from his plans, however. But this should do it.”

  “And what makes you think he will honor this ceremony and give up his schemes?” Honor asked reasonably, still balking at the idea.

  “I know Ian. He might not quail at a quiet murder, but incest he will avoid. As yer daughter’s godfather, to wed ye would clearly be such. The penalty for that’s too great. Bruce would seize his lands. ’Tis the law. Aye?”

  Honor sighed and nodded, finding no reason to argue further. She allowed him to lead her out into the hall. As he had indicated, preparations had been made. Father Dennis stood ready and a drunken Ian Gray swayed unsteadily beside him.

  She noted the man’s appearance more carefully than she had been able to the first time he came to Byelough. Gray stood nigh as tall as Alan, though not as broad of shoulder. He boasted no armor save the sweat-stained leathern jack of a common soldier. He wore that over a well fitted red woolen tunic edged with embroidered blue flowers. Honor supposed that garment his one attempt at looking anything better than one of his rabble. His breeks appeared torn and muddied, and his boots were scuffed.

  Ian Gray’s features were as rugged as his clothing, the exception there being an absolutely classic nose. Drink had slackened his mouth and clouded his eyes. His hair hung long and dark about his shoulders, small braids confining that which would have covered his ears. For all that, he was not an ugly man. Quite the contrary, some might find him quite appealing. As for Honor, she hoped never to see him again after this.

  A makeshift font had been erected, actually a table upon which a small metal basin rested.

  Alan went directly to Gray and deposited Christiana in his arms. Honor held her breath, terrified he would drop her. All the while Alan chattered to the man about some encounter with the English, obviously continuing a former conversation as though it had never been interrupted.

  Their visitor clutched the squirming bundle handed him and looked back and forth between Alan and the babe. He appeared quite confused and not a little cross-eyed from drink.

  At some signal from Alan, Father Dennis began reading the ceremony in Latin, softly, hurriedly and without a pause between words. At the appropriate time, he turned and took Christiana from the ale-flown godfather and poured water over her head. He said some few things to Nanette, then turned and asked Gray a question in Latin.

  “Say ‘aye,’” Alan suggested offhandedly. “Just say it, Ian, and they’ll give us another cup. ’Tis good ale, aye?”

  A loud aye and a belch greeted the fascinated assembly.

  “Let us pray!” Father Dennis intoned.

  Honor struggled to hold in her laughter. She knew there was nothing funny about having this man responsible for her daughter’s religious upbringing, but she knew in her heart Alan would never allow him any say in that. She had to admit, Alan’s trick would serve nicely if Ian Gray did not cry foul once he sobered.

  Gray scribbled his X on the papers when Alan told him to. Then he promptly sank to the rushes as though he had been struck down.

  Honor took Christiana from Nanette and retreated to the solar, wishing the man to perdition. She had an uneasy feeling they had not seen the last of Ian Gray.

  Chapter Seven

  Later that evening, Nanette knocked on the door of the solar which Honor had kept bolted. “My lady? The guest has gone. Sir Alan wishes you to join him in the hall.”

  “A great good eve to you, my lady!” Alan greeted her, raising his cup. “We hauled Ian out to his men and he is away home. I made him a good gift in appreciation of his service to us and our new kinship. A silver flagon, compliments of a dead Englishmon. He was well content. Gray, that is. I misdoubt the Englishmon was!” Alan laughed.

  “You probably convinced the fellow he’d be better off dead and he likely thanked you for it in the end,” Honor said dryly.

  He chuckled again, took a quick sip of ale and lifted his cup in salute. “Now I think on it, he did look somewhat peace stricken. Cannot be easy, being English, anyhow.”

  How in the name of heaven could she manage a man whose sole aim was to please everyone, even enemies?

  Then a smile crept across her face. Surely she could turn that to her advantage, make pleasing her his ultimate goal. His drink-slowed wits could be gathered up and redirected if she put her mind to it. Honor wanted him to act as the weapon she would wield when her most dangerous threat arrived. He must respond with deadly force and right quickly when she demanded it of him.

  With a final pat to the braids she had enclosed in her gold-threaded caul, Honor smoothed the soft blue samite of her cotta over her flat abdomen. The chased-silver belt hung in a perfect Y over her hips, its extension swaying gently when she moved. Having her shape returned to slenderness pleased her. Hopefully, it would please Sir Alan as well.

  She drew in a deep, steadying breath and joined him at table for what she hoped would be a pleasant confrontation.

  “Go and take the babe to sleep with you, Nan,” she ordered. With all the excitement, Honor had lost track of how much time had passed since last feeding, but the babe seemed content in her sleep. “Bring her to me later, but only if she hungers. Mayhaps she will sleep the night.”

  Her husband lounged on the dais in his usual highbacked chair, relaxed by what must have been numerous cups of ale. Honor took her place beside him.

  “Good sir, you demanded my presence? I am here.” The sweet smile she had practiced in her mirror felt strained, but she held it in place.

  “Demanded?” he asked with a lift of his brows. “Nay, I’d never make demands on you, sweet one. I only wished you to come out and see that my cousin did not lay waste to the place afore he departed.”

  So he played courtly again, did he? Honor resolved to shake him out of that right soon. Today’s events taught her that anything disrupting his concentration made short work of his labored politeness.

  “Sir Ian has left us in peace for now?” she asked, keeping her tone light.

  “Aye, and will in future. He’s not really a bad sort, but it pays to be cautious. He fought at Bannockburn, was witness to Tav’s wounding and supposed him dead of it. Few survive such. He meant well enough to give you his protection, but there was likely a bit of greed in his heart as well. No reason to kill a man for that, however.” Alan smiled at his generous assessment of the situation.

  Honor decided he was not drunk, or even close to it, only feeling relaxed, smug and a bit righteous.

  She carefully smoothed out the frown she felt forming. “That devil ordered me to present myself when he arrived the last time. He said he had come to take the Byelough and its mistress for his own. That is no way to charm a lady, I can tell you.”

  “Aye, but he left when ye pelted him with arrows, did he not?” Alan asked, and then continued without waiting for an answer. “I willingly admit Ian’s a mite lacking in the finer points of courtship, but he meant well enough. He only attempted what I have accomplished, Honor. My only advantage was Tav’s recommendation. And the Bruce’s confirmation of it, of course,” he added with a wry twist of his lips. “But I don’t doubt me Ian would replace me here if he could. After this day’s doings, he’l
l serve your cause right enough if necessary, but only as a friend and kinsman.”

  Honor pressed her palms together and sighed deeply as she raised her eyes to meet his. “Then for your clever plan to protect me, I must thank you, sir. And I do.”

  She moved closer and laid her free hand over his where it rested on the table. A sudden warmth in her neck and cheeks told her of her blush. She had not planned that, but it would serve her cause quite well, she hoped. Becoming flustered by Alan’s nearness had not figured in her scheme, but she could use that since she could not prevent it.

  “He frightened me,” she uttered in a small voice, attempting to sound weak. Men liked weak women, did they not?

  He covered her hand and squeezed. “Ah, sweeting, there’s naught to fear now, I promise you.” Bright green eyes searched hers, and then his gaze traveled down her neck to her chest. It lingered there for what seemed an eternity before returning to her face. Honor breathed in deeply to show herself to best advantage should he look again. He did.

  He shifted in his chair, apparently no longer comfortable. Honor imagined the effect she had on his body and quickly enhanced it by tracing her lips with the tip of her tongue. A practiced move it was, and rewarding.

  Alan shifted again and leaned closer so that his mouth stopped only a hand’s width from her own. Would he kiss her here in front of everyone? So intent was his regard and her reaction, that for a moment, Honor could not absorb the whispered words he formed.

  And then they registered. “Best see to yer bodice, sweeting, and to wee Kit, I’m thinking.”

  Honor glanced down and gasped, mortified. Circles of wetness outlined her nipples, marring the costly fabric of her second best cotta. Milk. With a groan of embarrassment, she snatched her hand from his and fled his presence.

  Tears streaked her face in hot rivulets as she rushed to Nan’s chamber, a curtained, cavelike recess cut into the thickness of the keep’s wall. With an angry sniff, she took the child from her maid and stalked back to her solar without a word.

  So much for seduction, she thought angrily. She plopped down on the stool before the fire hole, loosening her cotta and pulling at the ties of her undergown. “Here, then,” she said as she settled Christiana in the crook of her arm. “Give thanks while you are about this that I eschewed a wetnurse, piglet. I am having second thoughts.”