by Stone, Lyn
“Bring him around!” the comte ordered. One of the men snatched up the flagon that sat before his master and dashed the contents directly into Alan’s face.
Alan started at the shock of it, then lifted a hand to clear his eyes. When he raised himself to his elbows, the waiting soldier placed a foot on his chest. Alan surrendered and lay still, but his gaze darted immediately toward the one who had issued the order. Honor suspected then that Alan had not been senseless all along, but merely feigning unconsciousness and assessing the situation.
“Comte de Trouville, I presume?” he said calmly, as though he were standing proud and meeting a new acquaintance. Honor could not help admire his aplomb, though it seemed rather pointless.
“Yes, I am come. Surprised you, did I?” Trouville asked, switching languages without hesitation. More for convenience than courtesy, Honor was certain.
“Well, guests usually do announce their arrival in a more congenial manner.” Alan glanced around the hall, deserted but for the comte’s men. “And at a more reasonable hour. Your entrance required the assistance of the jongleurs you employed, of course.”
“But of course,” the comte confirmed, a grin hovering about the sardonic set of his lips. Honor admitted the scornful expression did little to hamper his looks, however. Trouville was not ill-favored in his appearance. Straight, dark hair, impeccably cut and combed, enhanced the strong, square face with its slender nose and slightly tilted eyes. Piercing eyes that suddenly fastened on a person with deadly intent.
Most women at court had thought him handsome and would have been happy to marry him. Two women had died for their mistake, though Honor supposed not many knew that. Did they do so, they wisely kept it to themselves. If Honor had not befriended one of the women who had attended his last wife, she would never have known herself.
“Where is Hume?” the comte asked conversationally, toying with one of Honor’s silver goblets which someone had procured for him. “I understand he enjoys your hospitality here.”
“Aye,” Alan admitted with a polite smile. “Shall we fetch him from his rest to attend you?”
“By all means! Let us make a party of it,” the comte said.
His tone changed abruptly as he addressed his men, ordering them to locate Hume and bring everyone into the hall.
Then he reverted to English, his voice again smooth as cream. “I have found my beloved and it is time to share my joy.”
Alan laughed. “If the only way ye can procure a woman is with a knife at her neck, I say ye have damned little to rejoice about.”
At a nod from the comte, the soldier whose foot rested on Alan’s chest gave him a stout kick in the chin. Alan grunted.
Honor bit off a scream. Instinctively, she knew that any further defense of him would incur worse treatment. Perhaps she could placate the man and at least give Alan time to recover. “My lord, allow me to summon the cooks to prepare you a meal. You must be tired and hungry. We could settle all of this after you have eaten and rested.”
He displayed a mirthless smile and inclined his dark head in admonishment. “Ah, sweet lady, do you seek to gain my favor? There are better ways than food, though the thought of a bed to lie on does stir my...imagination. Later, perhaps?” He turned from her to regard the folk his men were herding into the hall.
“I do not have to ask who you are!” Adam of Strode boomed, shaking off the hands that guided him forward.
“Well, well, the good baron!” Trouville said by way of greeting. “The good, English baron. Ho, here is a find indeed!”
Honor did not miss the fact that Trouville only feigned surprise at Lord Adam’s presence. He had known very well Alan’s father was here well before he saw him. With sinking heart, she realized someone of her people had already answered all of the comte’s questions, probably under duress.
Trouville continued taunting. “Bruce will like to see you, I think. What a nice gift for the good King Robert to promote relations between France and Scotland. Delighted to meet you, Lord Adam. Your son does share your looks, if not your loyalties.”
“My son is a Scot, Bruce’s man, and wed to this lady by his king’s direction. Do not think my pledge to the English crown will affect that in any way.”
The comte fingered his chin as though considering that. Then he shrugged and glanced around the room. “Hume?”
“Here, my lord.”
Honor saw her father then. She had expected him to look wasted and ill-kempt after his weeks of confinement. He did appear paler than usual, but otherwise quite well. “Papa!” she exclaimed. “Please—”
“Hold your tongue, girl!” he ordered. But his eyes held a warning, not a reprimand. Honor, for once, obeyed.
The comte de Trouville stood, looking at each person in turn before settling his gaze on Honor. “I would know more of what transpired to bring us to this point, my lady. Hume’s captain came to me immediately on his return to France. He wished me to effect his lord’s release from this place. Until that time, I believed you laid low with some illness that delayed our wedding. I must say, you do look remarkably fit for one so direly afflicted.”
He glared at her father and then returned his evil gaze to her. “A lie, obviously. It was only when that man reported that I learned of your unsanctioned marriage to Lord Tavish. That was a false union, as any court will tell you, for you were contracted to me.”
Alan’s father stepped forward, impatiently moving the sword that guarded him. “The Bruce himself ordered this one, however. If you still feel wronged, set the fine and my son shall pay it.”
The comte laughed without humor. “Oh, assuredly, he will pay.”
Honor jumped as a loud wail interrupted the harangue. Christiana! Did the comte know of her?
“Halt that confounded noise!” Trouville ordered curtly.
Honor bit her lips together, wanting desperately to rush to her child and give comfort. Draw comfort, as well, she admitted. Instead, she remained helpless, the soldier’s knife resting against her skin.
She watched Nan and Janet exchange whispers and then children. Janet opened her heavy bedgown and gently tucked Christiana beneath the folds to suckle.
Honor squeezed her eyes shut and sighed with relief. What would the comte do when he found she had not only wed, but had a child? Had the captain of her father’s guard told him of that, as well? No, he could not have known. But anyone here could have told him after he arrived.
“My lord,” Alan said, his voice calm as ever, “Could we dispense with all this until morning? I feel somewhat at a disadvantage here.”
Trouville laughed aloud as he regarded Alan sprawled on the floor, half-naked, and streaked with blood. “I daresay you do.” He ran a hand over his own face and wiped away all trace of mirth. “However, I wish to settle this now, tonight.”
He strolled around the table and stood above Alan, looking down at him. “I never come into a situation completely uninformed. Word has it you are a brave and honorable man. Tales of your feats in battle are becoming legend. Even in your present state, you show me no fear. I do wonder, could you be as deceived by all this as I have been? People call you Alan the True, do they not?”
“Aye, so they do,” Alan admitted without humility.
“You were but a younger son, a mercenary, when you fought last. Bruce must have knighted you soon after Bannockbum.”
“Aye, he did so.”
The comte lapsed into French again. “Take him to the chamber there,” he ordered the man who had kicked Alan so viciously, “and allow him to clothe himself properly. Sans weapons, of course. I would see his dignity restored, even if he must carry it with him to the grave. Late as he has come to the honor, a fellow knight deserves that much.”
The men allowed Alan to rise as Trouville returned to his chair behind the high table.
Honor closed her eyes and prayed. Once the comte knew the full truth of what she had done, he would punish her severely. Whatever happened to her now, she had to accept. But
if he would listen, she must convince Trouville that Alan had no hand in the deception. Only the truth might save both Alan and her father.
Heaven only knew what might save Christiana, for Trouville’s retribution would most probably extend to what he would consider her ill-begotten child.
God give me guidance, she prayed, and give it quickly.
Father Dennis appeared at her side as though summoned by her prayer. “Have courage, my lady,” he said in his most resonant voice.
He was the only one of her people within the hall left unguarded to wander at will. Since her captor now had lowered the knife from her throat, Honor ventured speaking to the priest. “Good Father, would you be so kind as to check the storage room? See whether we have enough victuals available to provide this company with the welcome they deserve?”
He looked at her as though she had lost her wits, requiring such a task of him.
“Those gray grain sacks, Father Dennis. See they’re brought to the kitchens, if you will.”
She watched the light dawn. Finally. Honor watched the priest saunter slowly and unquestioned toward the stairway leading to the kitchens. She only hoped he would increase his speed once he reached the bolt-hole. It was a long way to Ian Gray’s keep. Help might be too long in coming no matter how much he hurried.
She dared a glance at Alan, who walked a bit unsteadily between two burly guardsmen toward the solar. What a brave knight and good man, her Alan. And to think she had brought him to such a pass.
For every soul he had worked so hard to train to weaponry here, the comte de Trouville had brought several well-armed and seasoned warriors. Even did the women and children count, Byelough’s people were still outnumbered. If Ian Gray came to their aid as she hoped, like as not his men and most here would be slain. Pity she had not thought of that sooner.
Trouville seemed content while he waited for Alan to garb himself appropriately. He sipped at his ale as though he had nothing better to do. Now and again, he regarded her with faint amusement. Finally, he spoke. “You might have saved the good father the trouble, my lady.”
Her eyes flew to the stairway where Father Dennis reappeared, moving with a bit more haste now since he was prodded by yet another of the comte’s men. Honor sighed with defeat.
“No one enters, no one leaves,” Trouville declared quietly, “until this matter is resolved.”
Honor’s heart thudded in her chest. She could see it in his dark, pitiless eyes. Someone would die this night. “Mercy, my lord,” she whispered.
“For whom?” the comte asked idly. “Yourself or him?” He gestured toward the solar door.
Alan stood strong and unbowed, attired in captured English clothing. He wore a brown sark and leggings underneath a forest green woolen tunic which bore no design. Though the garments were plain and unomamented, girded only with a simple belt of gold links, her husband appeared a noble prince of a man.
Though he looked solemn, dignified and above defeat just as he was, a part of Honor wished he had chosen to wear his breacan. Once more, before she was taken away or worse, Honor wished to see the heart-stirring sight her husband made as a ferocious highlandman.
“Bring the accused forward,” the comte demanded. “Sir Alan of Strode, Lord Dairmid Hume and the lady Honor.”
Each was flanked by two of Trouville’s guards and led to stand several ells apart in a semicircle before the dais.
Their erstwhile judge sat back in the lord’s chair and regarded them in turn.
“Understand this. If I find Lord Hume has done me this ill turn and deprived me of the person and properties due me as Lady Honor’s husband, he will answer for it with his life.
“Should Alan of Strode insist on the legality of this underhanded match, I shall be forced to make the lady a widow so that I may wed her.”
The comte raked the people of Byelough with a menacing glance. “And if the lady alone has played me for a fool, then both men shall be spared.” He paused, then resumed quietly, “However, she will die where she stands.”
Honor heard a collective gasp and then silence swept through the hall.
The comte himself broke it. “Lord Hume shall speak first. Tell us how this treachery commenced.”
Honor watched her father’s lips tighten with what looked to be desperation. His eyes sought hers and she detected an apology in them. “My lord, my daughter had naught to do with this offense to you. I learned that she feared marriage to so high a personage as yourself. The marriage documents were altered. I replaced your name with another, Lord Tavish Ellerby, a young man who once visited our court. He seemed gentle and unassuming. I—I felt Honor would be happier here. So I made her come.”
The comte nodded, tongue-in-cheek. “And chastised her soundly for her reluctance to do so, I would reckon.”
“Aye, my lord,” Hume admitted softly. “But she had no say. I forced her to it. All of this is my doing. All my fault.”
“Well now,” Trouville said, turning to Alan. “What have you to say to all of this, Alan the True?”
Honor watched Alan take a deep breath, bow his head for a second and then face the comte directly, looking straight into his eyes. “I demanded the marriage, Trouville. Her father sent her here to wed Ellerby, who was my friend. When her husband died from his wound after the battle near Stirling, I thought to gain this unprotected keep and the lady for my own.”
Alan’s chin, darkened from the guardsman’s kick, raised a trifle as he continued without pause. “With Bruce’s sanction, I rode into this place fully armed and compelled the lady to surrender all. She had no other recourse. Anyone,” he said in a voice that would brook no disagreement, “Everyone who was present at the time will swear to this.”
Alan swept the hall with a glare, halting at each face, daring them to gainsay him. “The lady is blameless.”
“Will you set her aside?”
“I will not.”
“Not even to save your life?”
Alan shook his head. “All know we have lived as man and wife. To set aside our marriage as false would besmirch her good name, my lord. I know you would not wed her then, but only have her as your mistress. Kill me if you must, but know you Honor has only done her duty as a daughter to Lord Hume, as faithful wife to Tavish Ellerby and then to myself. I repeat, she is blameless and without fault.”
Trouville inclined his head as though accepting Alan’s words as fact.
Honor could not let this stand. She wanted to scream at Alan to renounce these lies of his, to speak truly as he had ever done. The comte would kill him, surely, and her father as well. She surged forward to set matters straight.
“Hold your tongue, woman, I am not ready for your version of this!”
Then he steepled his long fingers under his chin and resumed his questioning of Alan. “Since you never lie, tell me about this child she bore,” the comte ordered.
“‘Twas a sickly daughter,” Alan replied in a steady voice. “Surely that’s of no consequence to yourself.” He held out his hands, palms up, and shrugged. “’Tis a pity, but seldom do the wee ones survive their first months hereabouts. Lady Honor is presently unencumbered.”
“Except with a husband,” the comte commented dryly. “But no matter for long.” He turned to her father. “And you, Hume, what say you of this child I heard mentioned?”
“In all the time I have been here I have seen no child named as my daughter’s get, my lord,” he said truthfully. “I swear to it.”
Honor knew her turn had come. The comte swiveled his body in the chair and sat forward to regard her with his keen, narrow eyes. “Very well, my lady, now you may speak.”
“My lord,” Honor said softly. “I beg you to forgive these men. Their untruths are spoken out of love for me and I am properly humbled by their stout defense. But I must tell you all so that you will spare them.”
“Careful, lady,” the comte warned, “for I have little patience and even less mercy with a guileful woman.”
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�Then you will know I speak no lies here,” Honor said, her voice stronger than before. “I have no reason to say this other than it is what I must confess. ”Twas I who changed the documents and wrote in Tavish Ellerby’s name. My father beat me many times to make me willing to wed you, but I refused. I promised him that if he forced me to it, I would make such a scene as the French court has yet to see. That caused the delay in your plans to wed.
“Then I stole the contracts, altered them and lied to my first husband, saying that my father had relented toward his suit.”
The comte held up a hand to halt her words. “May I ask why you set yourself against me?”
“You may, my lord,” she said quite frankly. What did she have to lose here? “I had it in confidence that you had killed your first two wives, and chose not to suffer their fate.”
Harsh cries rippled through the crowd, but the comte silenced them. “Do continue.”
“I wed Lord Tavish Ellerby. He went to war with the English and did not survive. When Sir Alan of Strode brought home the body of my husband, he carried orders from my Lord Ellerby and from Robert the Bruce for me to wed with him. I did so and right gladly, for I feared for my future and that of Byelough and its people.”
“He did not compel you, then?” Trouville asked.
Honor hesitated for a moment. “In a way. He called on my duty to my husband and to King Robert of Scotland, but he knew nothing of my former betrothal at that time. Once I confessed all, he... threatened to punish me.”
“And has he done so?” the comte asked.
Honor met his curious gaze. “Not as yet.”
“You do know what your confession of these deeds forces me to consider. I have said you will die where you stand.”
Alan rushed toward her, but the guards restrained him. Honor noted it took four to hold him and prayed he would cease struggling before they cut him down.
“I understood you at the outset, my lord,” Honor said boldly. “Have done with it if you will, for I do not wish to survive my husband. And, God help me, I would not marry you if you slew every other man available!”
The comte rose and leapt across the table to land in front of her. The guards grabbed her arms. Alan’s roar rattled the very stones of Byelough as the guards wrestled him to the floor.