Castles, Knights, and Chivalry: 4 Medieval Romance Novels

by Ruth Kaufman

  “This makes no sense,” Ronan said. “I had no idea I had an illness, let alone that certain foods could provoke it.”

  “You may not have realized,” Lia said, “but something within you did.” She paused and thought for a moment. “Have you ever eaten something—perhaps something not cooked correctly—that made you terribly sick? So sick that you couldn’t keep it down?”

  “Aye.”

  “Have you been able to eat that food again?”

  Ronan shook his head, his face turning a bit green.

  “See, you’re having the response right now just thinking about it. Your stomach sours whenever you see the food, or even if you smell it cooking. Now, did you tell your stomach to protest?”

  “Nay.”

  “It just did it on its own; you didn’t have to think about it. Even if you wanted to try eating that food again, your stomach would be telling you nay and reminding you why you don’t want to eat it.”

  “Aye,” he said, looking at her in surprise.

  “When you lost your appetite and pushed away the roast pheasant, I realized this was a possibility I couldn’t ignore. Therefore, I decided to give you the choice of what you ate. But if I had told you why, it might have influenced your decisions.”

  Ronan gazed at her a long moment before his familiar grin returned. “Intriguing,” he said and returned to his meal.

  “However,” Lia said, “if you find yourself becoming bored with the food, we can always try new selections.”

  Aidan laughed. “Dinna tell him that, he will run ye ragged, lassie.”

  “Brother,” Ronan said in warning.

  Lia laughed softly.

  Aidan watched his brother’s interaction with Lia through the remainder of their meal. He wondered if they would continue like this if she became his sister-by-law. It was an interesting possibility, and Aidan found himself looking forward to it. He decided then the rest of his news could wait until after his brother finished eating.

  Ronan finished his meal and helped Lia clear the roundels from the table, returning them to the tray. Her words this morning had surprised him, but he was impressed with her ingenuity. He rubbed his eyes, wishing his vision would focus. He hadn’t slept at all last night, and his work with the claymore had exhausted him. Perhaps he would be able to take a short nap today and avoid being harried with nightmares.

  Lia opened the door and called a servant to fetch the tray. Aidan rose from his place but walked to the corner of the solar where Ronan kept his maps of clan holdings and the surrounding area. Ronan’s worry suddenly levered upward. Perhaps Aidan’s birds sang more songs that he had not yet shared.

  Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Ronan’s head snapped around as a terrifyingly familiar form strode through the door. The echo of his vicious laughter resounded. Ronan leapt sideways, automatically reaching for a weapon, only to belatedly realize his dagger was on the table next to his bed. For the barest instant, Ronan’s gaze focused on le March striding toward him.

  “Ronan?” Lia’s voice, suddenly distant, called to him. Somehow she managed to cut through the terror and hatred that fogged his thoughts and blurred reality.

  Ronan blinked and realized Lachlan had entered the room, walking toward the table to pick up the tray.

  “Ronan, what’s wrong?” Lia asked, moving to his side, her gentle hand gripping his arm.

  Ronan released his breath as his wits returned. What the devil had just happened?

  “Ronan?”

  “’Tis nothing,” he lied, his voice hoarse. “Why?”

  “You just jumped sideways as if someone had hit you with a hot poker,” Aidan said.

  Ronan gritted his teeth. Wondering if Aidan realized his words voiced exactly what le March had done to him . . . again Ronan’s vision blurred. For an instant, he saw le March’s face, less than an inch from his. Ronan’s soul recoiled when he saw the twisted joy in the man’s eyes as he laid the white hot iron against Ronan’s chest. Ronan bellowed in agony, every muscle in his body contracting with undisguised power, straining the chains that bound him.

  Ronan gasped, feeling as if the scar on his chest reopened and bled anew; the stench of his burning flesh filled his nostrils again, and he could not rid himself of it. Pain rocked through him, ripping at his heart and mind. A tiny voice in his soul screamed in terror. His time at home was nothing but a hallucination, and this agony was reality reasserting itself. He was still imprisoned, still le March’s captive.

  “You will never be free!”

  Ronan strangled on a curse, gasping for air. He suddenly realized his hand covered the throbbing wound, and he pulled it away expecting to see fresh blood. But there was nothing there.

  Then Lia’s delicate fingers appeared, her hand gripping his with surprising strength, grounding him in reality and pulling him from the nightmare. Ronan struggled to draw in another breath, willing his pounding heart to slow.

  Lia reached up and cupped his face with her hand. Her touch instantly calmed the terror clawing at the darkest corners of his mind. He lowered his head and squeezed his eyes closed, once again able to breathe normally.

  Be calm. This is what is real. Breathe, lad, and pull yer wits about ye.

  “Ronan, what’s wrong?” she whispered.

  He shot a glance at his brother. “We will talk later,” he said but took the opportunity to lightly kiss her cheek and inhale her sweet scent. Only then did the memory of the stench of his burning flesh truly fade.

  “Hey now,” Aidan muttered.

  Ronan managed to smile at Lia, his body finally uncoiling.

  Aidan unrolled the map and they used their wine cups to keep it flat. “My birds say Longshanks is coming back around, headed south, and has his sights set on Stirling Castle, the last holdout of Scottish resistance.” Aidan placed markers to show the English-controlled castles and Longshanks’s troop movements.

  Ronan forced himself to concentrate solely on his brother and the matter at hand. He nodded. “Longshanks is content with controlling the Lowlands.”

  “Le March is pushing for him tae move into the Highlands before he lays siege tae Stirling.”

  Lia looked at the map and scowled. “How far is Stirling from here?”

  “In the terms of Longshanks’s warfare, no’ verra far,” Ronan said softly. “Stirling be less than one hundred miles from us as the crow flies.” He looked at Lia and noted her puzzled expression. “What be the difference tae us, lassie, is the fact we are in the Highlands. In this terrain, the Scots excel. But in the Lowlands, Longshanks holds the advantage. As long as the clans fight the war on English terms, Longshanks will continue to systematically destroy the resistance.”

  As Aidan placed markers showing the English gains, Ronan noted Clan MacGrigor was caught in the middle. “With Campbell at our backs,” he growled.

  “Aye, brother,” Aidan said nodding. “As I told ye afore, le March is hounding Longshanks tae move against MacGrigor. In a sense, it is prudent because if we descend from the Highlands, we will flank his army and could cause all sorts of hardship and discontent. But whispers of the Demon Laird resound through the ranks of the common soldiers, and my birds say Longshanks is unwilling tae risk it.”

  “Unwilling tae risk giving up his advantage when he enters the Highlands, ye mean.”

  Aidan looked at the map, scowling.

  “Brother, if Longshanks leaves the Lowlands, the tide of battle turns tae our advantage. Longshanks is no fool.” Ronan sat back, examining the map at length.

  “Ronan,” Aidan said softly. “Ye have that look in yer eye again.”

  Ronan grinned at him. “Ye heard the saying, let sleeping dogs lie?”

  “Of course.”

  “Unless they wake this sleeping dog, the Demon Laird will remain quiet.”

  “Ronan?” Lia asked, the worry plain on her face.

  “Peace, my bonny lass. Longshanks no doubt has little use for tall tales and superstition. His men, howe
ver, they be a different story. Aidan, ’tis time tae give yer birds a new song for the others tae hear.”

  “What be that?”

  “The Demon Laird willna threaten, but provoke him, and ye call down the thunder.”

  Aidan’s eyes widened. “Ronan, Longshanks will take that as a challenge.”

  Ronan shook his head. “As I said, he is no fool; he can read a map as well as I. He will understand the message. He would much rather focus on Stirling than worry over a small Highland clan. The one man who will most certainly see it as a challenge is le March. Longshanks will keep him collared and muzzled, and that will infuriate him.”

  Aidan gazed at him in confusion.

  Ronan thought for a long moment, liking his idea more and more. It was time he stopped fearing le March and his memories. “Le March toyed with me, now it is my turn.”

  “Ronan,” Aidan said aghast, “ye have ne’er placed a personal vendetta o’er the welfare of the clan.”

  Ronan shook his head again. “I dinna do this for that reason. I toy with le March simply tae provoke him. If he somehow manages tae convince Longshanks tae attack us, le March will be so incensed, he will be making decisions emotionally, no’ logically.”

  “If ye are certain, brother, I will tell my birds.”

  “I am certain.”

  “There be one last thing.”

  “Aye?”

  “Gordy says MacFarlane has been seen visitin’ Campbell’s great hall many a time recently.”

  Ronan scowled. Laird MacFarlane had been a staunch ally of his da’s for years. But he also remembered Aidan telling him that MacFarlane did not wish to support Ronan right after his wounding. MacFarlane did it for the memory of Ronan’s da, nothing else. But the man had witnessed one of Ronan’s fits, and Ronan did not doubt when Aidan had brought him home, he had appeared closer to death than he was to life. He could not fault the laird for that.

  “Probably negotiatin’ with Campbell tae keep his own clan out of the fray,” Ronan said.

  “Normally, I would agree with you, but Gordy also heard a disturbing rumor. He has not been able tae learn the truth of it, but some be sayin’ MacFarlane sold grain tae MacLaren. The very grain that we purchased.”

  Ronan’s heart lurched and he clenched his fists as red tinted his vision. “He sold the blighted grain?” He felt Lia’s hand grip his and slowly unclench his fingers so she could entwine hers around them.

  “’Tis a rumor, brother. Gordy is still searching for the truth.”

  “Ye tell me as soon as he learns it. Someone kenned that grain was blighted, and as soon as I find out who it was . . . there will be the devil tae pay.”

  Chapter Twelve

  That afternoon, Ronan prowled his solar searching desperately for something to take his mind off of Aidan’s words and his desire to sleep. He knew he was coiled so tightly that if he tried to sleep now, it would only result in his nightmares growing worse. He shivered, remembering how, for an instant, he thought le March had walked through the door of his solar.

  God’s wounds! What was happening to him?

  Lia had done so much to help him. The infection was gone, his wounds healed on his body. She had even spoken the truth when she said the scars would not be as terrible as he had feared. She had defeated his hatred and suspicion of her with kindness, compassion, and warmth. She had given so much not only to help him but also his people. She had healed his body and his heart, but even she could not heal his mind.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, her distinctive knock sounded at his door. Praise the saints! “Enter,” he said softly.

  She opened the door and peeked around it. “I thought I’d poke my head in and check on you.”

  He grinned at her and sat at the table. “Join me, please.”

  She did so, sitting in her regular chair, but she watched him like a hawk. Ronan fought not to fidget under her gaze, suddenly feeling as if every detail of his nightmares were etched for her to see in the shadows under his eyes and the lines on his face.

  “You’re worrying me,” she said softly.

  He ducked his head. “I dinna mean tae vex ye, lassie.”

  “I know, but something has you aggravated, and I worry if it continues it will provoke your illness, and nothing I can do will help.”

  He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. The words rose to his lips; he longed to tell her about his nightmares, about dreading sleep, but his voice froze in his throat and he could say nothing. Why couldn’t he tell her? What was wrong with him?

  “I am sorry, Ronan, I did not mean to push.”

  “Nay, lassie, it’s not ye . . . not in the least.”

  Again she studied him a long moment, then finally gripped his hand. “When you are ready to tell me, I am ready to listen.”

  “Of course ye are,” he said pulling her hand to his lips. This time he studied her for a long moment. “Lia, with everything that’s happened, I realize I ken almost nothing about ye.”

  He saw an instant of pain and fear in her expression before she turned her face away and shrank in her chair. She tugged her hand from his.

  “There’s not much to tell,” she said softly, but Ronan had the sensation she was doing everything to make herself appear smaller.

  Ronan leaned forward and his free hand covered hers.

  She did not look up at him, instead she stared at his hand as if the simple action meant more to her than he realized.

  Lia drew a deep breath into her lungs. “Many think I am Sueta’s daughter, but I’m not. I was a foundling.”

  He blinked at her, stunned. “A foundling?”

  She nodded, her eyes liquid, and swallowed hard. “I was only seven . . . Sueta said I also struck my head.” She paused, her face pale but her expression appeared as if she struggled to grasp wisps of memory. “I do not remember much.”

  “Did she tell ye what happened?”

  Lia shrugged. “Only that she found me in Cumbria wandering through smoking rubble of broken rocks and shattered wood.”

  Ronan blinked. “Where be this?”

  Lia shrugged helplessly. “I do not know, she never told me specifically.”

  For some reason, Ronan’s thoughts returned to the strange script he had seen her use in her journal, what he originally thought was a cypher. “I also saw letter groupings,” he muttered, rubbing his chin.

  “Pray pardon?”

  He felt his face heat. “When . . . I worried over yer cypher. Ye said something about Sueta not having time tae teach ye how tae read.”

  She nodded.

  “Lassie, in yer . . . cypher . . . ye used not only drawings but letter groupings. Did Sueta teach ye yer letters at least?”

  “Nay. She said I already knew those. That’s part of the reason why she did not teach me more; she thought I could figure it out for myself.”

  As he gazed at her, a new appreciation for her intelligence grew. “Lassie, I recognized the letter groupings I saw. Ye kenned yer letters in three different languages.”

  She blinked at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “Where is yer journal, lass?”

  “In my room.”

  “Fetch it for me, please.”

  She nodded and hurried out the door. Within moments, she was back. She carefully untied it.

  This time he sorted through the sheets with the greatest care. “These letter groupings here and here, for example, these are commonly used in French. These over here I strongly believe are Latin, and the others are Common English.”

  “You’re . . . you’re sure?”

  He couldn’t help himself as a smile broke free. He leaned forward, his lips brushing her ear. “Vous êtes belle comme un lever de soleil d’automne,” he whispered. He kissed her cheek, longing to pursue her lips, but instead backed away slightly.

  She gazed at him in confusion. “What does that mean?”

  His smile grew. “I just told ye in French that ye are as bonny as an autumn sunrise.” />
  The blush that rose on her cheeks made the picture his words had painted perfectly complete.

  “My da was a man who valued knowledge. He placed as much importance on study as he did on my learning sword work and battle strategy. Because of him, I am fluent in all three languages.” He paused and gestured to the vellum he held. “That is partly why I accused ye so terribly. Ye did not dress or act with a manner of nobility, but here were letter groupings of three different languages—something only nobility would ken, but ye combine them in ways I havena seen.”

  She ducked her head, her blush growing even brighter.

  “Nay,” he said, smiling. He reached up and hooked a finger under her chin, tugging gently until she looked at him again. “I didna mean that as an insult, lass. Ye found a way tae accomplish yer goal. I mayna be able tae read it, but if it makes sense tae ye, that’s all that matters.”

  Her eyes filled with tears and Ronan wanted to kick himself. “I had hoped to leave those notes to my child . . . if I ever have one.”

  A sudden lust roared through him, and he surprised himself with wanting to be the man to give her the child she desired, but Ronan forced it down. He was a daft fool and needed to pay attention to the business at hand.

  “I wasna able tae meet with James as I originally planned.”

  “James?” she said. “Alba’s cousin? He is learning to be a scribe.”

  “Aye. That’s why I wanted tae speak with him. I wanted tae see if he was willing tae work with ye, not only teaching ye how tae read and write, but how tae translate your journal.” He paused and gazed at the fragile sheets, only now truly appreciating the journal for what it was. “There is too much knowledge here tae risk losing tae the simple fact that Aidan and I canna break yer cypher.”

  She scowled, not understanding his jest. But then realization dawned and she gave him an arched look. She took a breath to speak but then snapped her jaw shut. “Nay, Ronan MacGrigor, I’ll not rise to your baiting.”

  He laughed softly and pulled her hand to his lips. “Ye are a far greater challenge tae provoke than Aidan. All I have tae do is call him a codswallop.”

  Ronan was glad to see her pensive expression turn into a smile. She looked again at her journal. “I think I would like very much learning to read and write.”