Castles, Knights, and Chivalry: 4 Medieval Romance Novels

by Ruth Kaufman

  “Aye,” he said. “’Tis prudent, no doubt my blood will be boiling long before we are finished.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  He felt his lips lift despite his melancholy thoughts. “I shall endeavor tae maintain my temper.”

  “I know you will,” she said, smiling up at him. “But this situation would test even the patience of a saint.”

  A cry of a sentry announced the approach of the two lairds to his gate.

  He cupped her face in his hand, his thumb lightly brushing her cheek. “Tha gaol agam ort,” he murmured. His smile grew at her confusion. “Forgive me, lass. But I enjoy seeing your expression when I surprise you with phrases in other languages.”

  “Ronan,” she scolded playfully.

  A chuckle bubbled within him, chasing away his melancholy entirely. “Although, James tells me at the rate ye be learning, I willna be able tae do that much longer.”

  She rolled her eyes at him, but a blush stained her cheeks. “I can barely grasp Common.”

  He returned her eye roll with one of his own. “That’s why when James started ye on yer letters, he apparently only had tae remind ye of some of them before ye took off and wrote them all on yer own.”

  “What did it mean?”

  “Pray pardon?”

  “What you said . . . what did it mean?”

  His mirth faded but not his happiness. “’Tis Gaelic . . . I love ye.”

  Her smile was as brilliant as a new dawn. She reached up, weaving her fingers through his hair at the back of his neck so she could pull his head down. Her lips touched his as she spoke. “Je t’aime,” she whispered with fine French inflection.

  I love you.

  Ronan’s heart soared as he seized the initiative and kissed her powerfully. “And ye just proved my point for me,” he said as he lifted his head.

  Suddenly Ronan couldn’t wait for her to learn. He discomfited her at times with his changes in languages, but he did it because he recognized her sharp intellect. Soon, they would not only exchange pleasantries in other languages but arguments as well. Seeing the fire of his Sassenach was something that provoked him on a far deeper level. He found himself looking forward to it.

  The sentry barked again and Lia looked over her shoulder. She turned back to him and stunned Ronan by lifting the hood of his cloak over his head. “We must present the Demon Laird properly.”

  His heart turned cold and horror cut through him. He gently gripped her wrist and stopped her. “Lia, nay,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Ye never believed in the Demon Laird.”

  She paused and looked at him, her beautiful hazel eyes piercing straight to his soul. “I believe in you.”

  Ronan blinked at her, but he did not release her.

  “You made me realize,” she said, gently disengaging her wrist from his grasp. “’Tis all in the presentation and the demonstration.”

  “What are ye saying?”

  “Ronan, the Demon Laird is a part of the man I love. I only hated that persona when you hid behind him, when you buried yourself. But you came to terms with him, and have now done something far greater. Don’t you see?”

  Confusion assailed him. “Nay, lassie.”

  The sentry cried again and Ronan wanted to curse.

  Lia stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Vous êtes si belle pour moi,”

  You are so beautiful to me.

  His heart threatened to stop and his arms closed tightly around her. He dismissed his worries as foolish. “Tonight,” he growled. “Ye shall tell me in every language ye ken how it feels as I make love tae ye.”

  Her blush burned brighter. “You’d better go.”

  He didn’t want to but knew she was right. He caressed the soft silk of her cheek. Drawing a deep breath into his lungs, he released her and strode toward the gates.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lairds MacFarlane and MacLaren rode their horses through the gate and into the bailey as Ronan approached. A single retainer for each laird flanked them. They dismounted and Ronan stepped forward to greet them. He forced down his rage and his suspicion over the rumor of the blighted grain, reminding himself he had no evidence.

  Da had died only two years after Mum passed from an ague that had settled in her lungs. Seemingly losing his will to live, Da’s health had declined rapidly after her death. At the time, Ronan could not comprehend what was happening, why his father had fallen into such a deep depression and had not been able to pull himself out. Da’s death had forced Ronan to step into the position of laird at a younger age than they had expected, but Ronan had accepted the challenges and proven himself. Ronan glanced over his shoulder and saw Lia watching him. Now he understood exactly what had happened to his father.

  “Praise the saints,” MacFarlane said, pulling Ronan’s attention back. The man was now growing a bit long in the tooth, but Ronan had to admit he was glad to see the laird’s warm smile. MacFarlane extended his hand.

  Ronan gripped his forearm warmly, reminding himself again that the sale of the blighted grain was nothing more than a rumor.

  “I canna say how verra glad I am tae see ye so well recovered, MacGrigor,” MacFarlane said with a bright grin. “When I accompanied yer brother and brought ye home, I was terrified ye’d not survive.”

  “Thank ye,” Ronan said, finally allowing himself to match the man’s smile.

  MacLaren also dismounted and extended his hand. Ronan greeted him warmly as well.

  “Aye, MacGrigor,” MacLaren said. “The rumors and tales we heard were troublesome indeed. I too am glad tae see ye hale.”

  “Thank ye, MacLaren,” he gestured toward his temporary solar. “Please, join me. Ye can refresh yerselves and we can speak at our leisure.”

  MacFarlane looked up at Ronan’s damaged keep, then his gaze slid to the tower. He whistled softly. “Ye have yer work cut out for ye, laddie.”

  “Aye,” he said, escorting them to the door. “I fear the great hall is still something of a mess, but we can discuss business in here.” He opened the door and they stepped inside. Ronan noted that both retainers took up positions as guards on each side of the door. He followed the two lairds inside and closed the door.

  Ronan quickly removed his cloak and stepped to the small table where the servants had left bread, cheese, wine, and a bottle of MacGrigor whiskey. He gestured to the chairs as he poured three small glasses of whiskey. The two lairds sat and Ronan gave them each a glass and lifted his own. “MacGrigor,” he said as a toast and they drank. He refilled the glasses two more times as they toasted each of their clans. It was a tradition his da had started long ago, and he was more than honored to maintain it.

  He then poured the wine and sat in his chair as the lairds helped themselves to the bread and cheese. Ronan decided to allow them to gather themselves first before he addressed the issue at hand.

  “Ye appear completely recovered, lad,” MacFarlane said.

  “Aye,” Ronan replied. “My stamina still be a bit low, but my strength is returning tae me.”

  “We were stunned when we heard that yer brother sent for a Sassenach healer.”

  Ronan nodded. “The lass kens healing like no other. She is the reason I survived.”

  “So that be why ye now plan tae marry her?”

  Ronan chuckled softly and winked at MacFarlane. “Word spreads surprisingly quickly, but aye.”

  MacFarlane chuckled again. This time he reached for the whiskey and filled the three small glasses. “Congratulations,” he said by way of a toast and drank.

  Ronan inclined his head in acknowledgment and tossed back the drink. He breathed a soft sigh as the whiskey warmed his gut and finally chased away the chill of worry gripping his insides.

  “Now, lad,” MacFarlane said, settling back in his chair. “I fear there is a bit of business we must address.”

  “Aye,” Ronan said and nodded. “Ye just said yerself, MacFarlane, ye were there when my brother brought me home. Ye ken what le Ma
rch did tae me. Ye ken why I dinna want him tae set foot in my home.”

  “I understand,” MacFarlane said, his expression growing more pensive.

  “Do ye ken what this parlay is about? I defeated him. He ran with his tail between his legs.”

  “And that was an impressive victory, especially since ye destroyed the War Wolf.”

  “For all the good it did us, since Longshanks simply builds a new one.”

  “Aye, and it is because of Longshanks that we be here. Stirling is the last holdout of Scottish resistance. When it falls, the war will be over, and we will have lost.”

  “Aye,” Ronan said softly.

  “That be the reason . . . the only reason . . . why I—” he paused and gestured to MacLaren. “Why we agreed tae support le March regarding this parlay, MacGrigor. We dare not anger Longshanks. We must look tae our future now.”

  “But what is his purpose?”

  “I honestly dinna ken,” MacFarlane said. “Le March refused tae tell us the specifics, only that he needed our help in securing yer agreement tae the parlay. He kenned ye wouldna agree tae one otherwise.”

  “That is sooth,” Ronan growled and took a drink of wine. “I dinna like that he refuses tae tell ye. As I said, he lost; there be nothing tae discuss.”

  MacFarlane stared at his cup a long moment.

  “MacFarlane,” MacLaren said. “Ye need tae tell him our worries.”

  “What is this?” Ronan asked scowling.

  “Ye ken, laddie,” MacFarlane said softly, “le March has lost the king’s favor.”

  “Of course. This is Longshanks we are speaking of, he isna the forgiving type.”

  MacFarlane nodded. “He stripped le March of his command and even confiscated some of his holdings. Le March will be returning tae England in shame.”

  Ronan couldn’t help himself. He grinned viciously and grabbed the bottle of whiskey. “That calls for a toast,” he said and refilled the cups.

  MacFarlane chuckled softly, took the cup Ronan filled, and lifted it. All three drank again and MacFarlane’s chuckle bubbled into laugh. “I tell ye, lad, I see more and more of yer da in ye every day.”

  “Thank ye,” Ronan said, taking it as it was meant—a compliment.

  “Since there be no obvious reason for this parlay,” MacLaren said, “we are worried, MacGrigor.”

  “About what?”

  “Ye,” MacFarlane said.

  “Pray pardon?”

  “Considering what le March did tae ye, considering that ye thrashed him so soundly in battle, and considering he gives no good reason for this parlay, we fear his goal is tae get within yer walls and assassinate ye.”

  Ronan blinked at them, startled. They believed le March would betray the peace accord of the parlay? Then his wits returned. Of course he would if given the opportunity. Ronan knew le March only wanted him dead.

  “Yet ye support him in his request?”

  “I told ye why, laddie,” MacFarlane said. “Even though le March has lost the crown’s favor, we dinna want tae anger Longshanks by refusing a parlay request from an English nobleman. Le March’s lord, the Earl of Pembroke, is a powerful man, and he maintains Longshanks’s indulgence.”

  Ronan nodded, understanding the delicate political ramifications.

  “Even though we will lose this war, we can take steps now that will demonstrate our willingness tae accept Longshanks as our king. We need not lose our lands and homes.”

  “What are ye suggesting?”

  “That ye allow the parlay tae go forward, find out what le March wants. I will place my most trustworthy man at yer back. So if there is an attempt on yer life, it will fail.”

  Ronan stiffened. “There is only one man I trust tae guard my back.”

  “Yer brother,” MacFarlane said, nodding. “I ken that, MacGrigor, but think on it. By placing my man at yer back, plus me and MacLaren at yer side, we present a united front tae le March, yet also one that willna anger Longshanks. And more, it will free up yer brother tae hopefully get tae the bottom of this intrigue.”

  “Longshanks be the least of my worries right now.”

  “Yet he should be yer greatest,” MacFarlane countered. “Ye were the one who destroyed his precious War Wolf, after all.”

  “Aye,” Ronan said, scowling.

  “What if, after Stirling falls, Longshanks decides tae pay a visit here simply in answer for what ye did? Ye ken he willna let the slight ye paid him stand.”

  Ronan’s anger rose. He took a drink and forced himself to calm. MacFarlane was right, and Ronan would not endanger his clan.

  “What if le March’s desire is tae present a parlay that will soothe Longshanks’s anger? Ye ken he wants tae return tae the king’s grace.”

  “Aye, he believes killing me would do that.”

  “Which is why I want Fionnlaoch at yer back. If le March attempts tae kill ye under a parlay banner, we will stop his plot and further embarrass him. Yer anger at his treachery will be justified and reflect badly on Longshanks.”

  “Longshanks would vent his fury on le March,” Ronan said, “and would not attack Clan MacGrigor, instead, he might even seek tae make reparations in order tae help smooth the road so the Scots will accept him as their king and not reignite the rebellion.” He paused, pinching his bottom lip in thought. “But what if le March does not plan tae assassinate me? What if his request for parlay brings with it something entirely different?”

  “Then we have lost nothing and can deal with whatever situation presents itself. I am certain any information Aidan can glean will help us in that regard.”

  Ronan took another drink, his thoughts spinning. MacFarlane presented several valid points. Normally, Ronan would have agreed to them wholeheartedly. There was only one thing that gave him pause. Ronan only trusted Aidan to guard his back. Placing a man who Ronan did not know troubled him greatly. Yet MacFarlane was also correct in stating that would free up Aidan to use his talents and get to the bottom of this if assassination was not le March’s goal.

  What of the blighted grain?

  Ronan studied both MacFarlane and MacLaren intently. He saw no sign of guile in their eyes but had to admit he did not look too closely. Suspecting them of treachery would have angered his father. Ronan knew Da would have trusted both with his life and would not hesitate to trust the man MacFarlane placed at his back.

  Only question remained, was his son made from the same mettle?

  Ronan nodded and rose from his chair, extending his hand. The two lairds also rose. “We have an accord,” Ronan said as he gripped MacFarlane’s forearm then did the same with MacLaren.

  “Excellent, lad,” MacFarlane said, grinning up at him. “I kenned ye’d see the wisdom of this solution.”

  For some reason, doubt still plagued Ronan, although he couldn’t define why. He forced himself to smile and gestured toward the door. “Come, let us prepare for le March’s arrival.” He paused and looked at MacFarlane. “Although ye’d better warn Fionnlaoch, he may find himself not guarding my back but stopping me from killing the bastard the moment he sets foot inside my gates.”

  MacFarlane laughed and slapped him on the back. Ronan’s reflex was to automatically flinch, even though his wounds were long healed.

  “Worry not, MacGrigor, he shall be ready tae assist ye in whatever fashion ye need.”

  “Thank ye,” Ronan said and escorted them through the door.

  Lia avoided Ronan’s temporary quarters while he met with the two lairds. But she was certain the anxiety was going to kill her. He had recovered well from his latest fit, and Lia had changed the dosage of his medicant. But she worried over him, especially knowing that it was le March he would ultimately meet.

  She didn’t understand what this was all about. Le March had lost, there was nothing to negotiate. No terms to discuss, no gold exchanging hands, no treaty to haggle over. She sighed heavily and turned her back on the door. She had to do something to keep her mind occupied. But first she neede
d to sit down. She limped to a chair, leaning heavily on Ronan’s cane.

  She stretched her sore leg out and noted it was swelling again. She propped it up but knew staying off of it was what it really needed. While she sat, she pulled her journal to her along with the inkwell and quill. She and James were supposed to work on it again later today.

  Although she worked hard to learn all that he had to teach her, they had both agreed that any documentation she had to make at this point would be done with her cypher. The notes were too important to risk confusion over an error regarding a language she did not yet know how to write.

  “There be the healer,” an unfamiliar voice said as a man stepped next to her.

  She started and looked up. “Do you need something?” She recognized one of the lairds, MacFarlane, if she remembered correctly.

  “I need tae speak with ye. A matter of healing,” he said and smiled. He paused and looked at the sheet of vellum with her cypher. “What be this?”

  She blushed, unwilling to have him believe her uneducated. “Scribbles,” she muttered.

  “I see some letters but they make no sense.”

  “As I said,” she replied, her voice growing tighter, “scribbles.”

  “Very well,” he said, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand.

  Her ire pricked. Lia studied the man a moment. He was aging but still a picture of health. But she reminded herself this man was Ronan’s ally, at one time his father’s friend. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

  “I heard that it was ye who discovered the truth of the blighted grain.”

  Her smile vanished and she swallowed hard, remembering Aidan’s worries that MacFarlane knew the grain was blighted. “I did,” she said softly. The hairs on the back of her neck stood upright.

  “It would take someone quite knowledgeable tae come tae that conclusion rather than believe it a plague as ye initially thought.”

  How did he know so much? “I am sorry, MacFarlane, I do not understand.”

  He nodded and stepped closer, his smile vanishing.